It is here but the colorshave stayed away. Gueststo no one—they pout insidedark buds. The sky white—astonished. Rivers are flowingin spite of the same fragrance.And people, awake like deer,browse for a bright sleeveamong tarnished barns.There is no one coming outin green yet—but skiesdrop blue, and the sungoes right on burning down.—Greg Kuzma, “Spring”Photography Credit Lisa Wassmann

It is here but the colors
have stayed away. Guests
to no one—they pout inside
dark buds. The sky white—
astonished. Rivers are flowing
in spite of the same fragrance.
And people, awake like deer,
browse for a bright sleeve
among tarnished barns.
There is no one coming out
in green yet—but skies
drop blue, and the sun
goes right on burning down.

Greg Kuzma, “Spring”
Photography Credit Lisa Wassmann

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    Poem for a false Spring.
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