The word that fits would mime the genesis. --Michel Deguy
Monday, March 31, 2014
Already warm days, the dust in flight,
An azure sky deepening with light,
The evenings long, the walls sunlit,
And nothing green: a poor whim
Of colour drapes a reddish scrim
On tall trees, dark branches backlit.
This fine weather becomes a strain.
It is only after days of rain
That the rose and verdant spring
Will bloom --- like the first glimpse
Of a freshwater nymph, a smile at her lips,
Who rises from a woodland spring.