For all the talk of warmth and rebirth, spring is a really ugly season. Trails turn to mud pits and roads to rivers as the thaw begins to take hold, and the brown carcasses of what was left at the end of fall begin to reappear. The ground cover is a layer of partially decayed leaves, and all the damage the winter did is slowly revealed.
White Wind / Frozen layering like ice sheets, / Yet wicked and swift, / It carves and scours its path.
Arcturus / Leader of the lucida in their nightly procession, / The key: receiver of lightning
Eurydice didn’t look quite so lost yesterday / as I passed the sculpture garden on the way to class.
An ice footprint stays / long after maker is gone / snowfall soon obscures.
Sometimes someone will drown in another part of the river and I can’t help, because the river is large and I am only one person.
The secondary rain shower / trickles from the leaves of the honey locust
