All the spring days are not bright and warm, sharp in flowering contrast and bluelike cloudlessness
Some are still re-stretched with cooler whitishness, holding on to wintery soft soupysky.
.Foggy remnants of yesterseason.
I followed such an example once,
Thinking it noble to breach the oncoming differences
In the name of devotion to a picture(esque)
of a time that had its time.
But we have to look forward to look back.
Go straight to return to beginning of a time always passing.
Tell the winter to let go; it is springtime now.
And the autumn will come always after the natural greens of cricket legs and duller browngreys of earthworms, digging down deeper and deeper to the core, the root of your childhood.
Making fertile the coming back home again,
through the front door of the screen porch every and all the summer nights.
