Walking in the great spring Greening,
I’m struck by the fragrance of lilacs
and all of the Springs of the past
begin flowing through the mind.
Some of them have names
and I could lose myself
in any one of them but let
the ripples wash right past me—
so none of them are turning into
sucking psychic whirlpools;
instead intent is coloring
the air with self-awareness.
It’s an energy that cracks
the rocks and reaches with a green
hand towards the springtime
purity of sunshine.
And the dust it leaves
behind is like a lilac
talc for this newborn
unborn song of self.
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