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A season is as slow as your heart desires it.
To leap off the bobsled of winter is to hear
The trickle grow noisier, the noisier
Breathing of trees; of houses expanding into
The full swivel of unbroken sunlight;
Curriculum of new love that adorns
The fields with flower heads, new love awaking
Among sparrows and pigeons, ready answers
To old questions. It is hard to believe
There is no time to philosophise. Spring
Burns struck like a light alcoholic smear
By the sun to volatile cold flames; by summer
It will have all been burnt away, leaving
Complete canvases on the museums of the land.
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