SPRING, ISN'T IT?

Still, stilettoes of snow

shot from the sea,

the winter’s tail on the rampage,

night crossed by

whooshing swarms

of needles of ice.

But now it’s morning

and the huge window

is flooded with light

reminding of an already ripe

midday in the sky.

I look at the time, six a.m.,

just dawn, surprise.

Spring, isn’t it?

I go back under the sheets

gazing, on the window panes,

at spring’s sweet pains,

the longed-for cruelty

of buds and soft rain,

memory and desire’s blades.

And I am plunged,

sensing the umpteenth “nevertheless”,

into the sun’s weaving wishes,

our bright mess.