alice in wonderspring

two days ago
(today minus two)
it was spring.

every former glorious snowman
and plowed-up pile at the curb
past the crystalline, wet and fragile,
grayed and sloppy stage of middle-age.

elderly puddles of mud now,
deep and sticky, soft and waiting for a foot to suck in.
perhaps lose a shoe to the gloppy void.

so we took our walk without jackets,
to a garden, to sculptures --
a magical polished chessboard
where a menagerie glistened in smooth stone
under lampposts and a warm sky.

and the bench was warm before we sat down,
and my toes were exposed.