SPRING, MUTABILITY


This is the place
Where only  last week
All barriers were down,
Heaven surging
Directly into Creation,
Laying bare
God's every secret.

Here beside this hill
Hundreds of pink
Ballet-dancers
Stood poised upon 
These branches,
Pirouetting and leaping 
In the breeze--

Or was it a Bride
With dancers
Embroidered
On her gown,

A Bride embraced 
By that  lover 
Right over there 
Sporting his new, 
Gold suit
The color of First Light?

Already the dancers 
are gone from the branches
And the leaves remaining 
Resemble only ash,

While the nearby lover 
Has already changed into
A work suit of  drab, 
Midsummer-green.

My eyes strain
To find where 
That Opening was,

Incredulous that Nature
Can so quickly divest
Her bride and groom,
Leaving no memento
Of their recent glory.