Primavera

Spring tumbles in from the cold clad in the pulpen rosy blossoms clotting atop the Judas trees. It falls from the sky in clumps of rain.
It clutches lip to cracked teen-aged lip in the back of Roman busses. It backs up spinster perfume against new worlder curry escaping through pores—that they might gyrate unpleasantly together. And make the crumpled shelter of traffic sound in the street seem a reprieve.
Spring I feel only in happy times, trapped in those God conscious non-moments, but the crap shed on the sidewalk by remarkably Italian dogs, coiled serpentine and waiting for an unwitting step. Now, that, that is all year.

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One Response to “Primavera”

  1. francesca Says:

    I desperately miss your musings, and not-so-secretly long for more!

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