It was spring.
She knew it, and he knew it too,
That none of them had ever felt
the blooming of a myrtle, billowing
through the toxic waste ridden, loose,
unsettled earth. Never once had they heard
the sound of a newborn baby girl,
arms outstretched, wailing and wiggling
desperately searching for her father’s gasp.
It was spring.
No longer was the need for oversized fur coats,
for she now donned high-waisted shorts and a floral headband.
He didn’t understand,
his boat shoes had served him faithfully through the seasons.
But now,
It was spring.
They had ambrosia, and with each sip,
a new wave of blissful intoxication spread through them.
The new hip outlived the old hop,
The beach bodyguard was more trusted than the cop.
She stared deep into the clouds:
Never before had she seen
a cloud carry a continent, colliding
with the twisted, darkening sky.
She knew the smell of rain.
It was spring.