Just when the psyche settles to its lot
then dreams come with their sword 'n sorcery,
dolor wounds again, fill the gallery
with snapshots of deep feeling you forgot.
April, the Diva, looms where March kept mum,
busy with small, green ground-embroideries;
dream too's unlocking capabilities:
now spring is here, only a dead stick's numb.
Nothing to be done but admit to these
conspiracies of the unconscious mind.
Celandine gilds love's rain-pearled meadow grass;
caverns resound with ancient prophecies,
though Pity drains her silver from the glass -
and when the spring is wound, you shall unwind.
