Spring? (i.p.)

Like dead seeds scattered,
you spread your dreams upon
the cold Winter’s ground.
They fell
hard like
concrete
and sewed stones of maybe,
and were resurrected before the fourth April rain,
that blossomed in the Dogwood petals of
pale pink and purple that
line the gutters of my street.
The natural pallet of
the colors of Spring that
lay pasted,
sopping up runoff
on the runways of
cement
and
down
pipes.
In chorus with
the
cigarette wrappers
and
shards of broken glass
that
lay discarded and forgone
but
not
forgotten
as they swim past the petals
in
a muted image
that is
so beautiful
it makes me

stop.