The agony of spring when it is trespassed by other seasons,
                                                          discolouring the weather. A bud
                                                                                           rejoins another branch, then all along its boughs
                                           a natural mirth among the seeds
                                                                                                rupturing closer to a mutter.
 
                                                                    Say it’ll last for another week or so, but this year
                                                                                                                                         our grounds are empty
                                              the short-lived have no onlookers
                                                                                                     and by now, it will begin to oxidise
                                                               stubbornly into green
                                                                                                the summers more humid this time, more volatile
                                                than the last.
  
                                                                    And as I wake up this morning, clusters of
                                            snow, dust, snow—
                                                                                                 the ash inseparable from its confetti
                                                                        dance to the ground.