Spring’s Mien

A new moon on the summer solstice;
summer is here—take a look back
at April, May.  No sense of irony
or humor to be found that spring.
Grim faces everywhere, pained
looks, and everything as is.
Windswept, abundant rain.
Of all the spring’s shades
of green, rendered by
Mother Nature, or cotton 
of sky pock-marked o’er
powder blue canopy of life.
A mean unseen pilfered wit;
a shroud covered verdant growth.
The mask of all we were, and are.
Still, daffodils bloomed where
they should, and Canadian
geese bred by the shore.
Statistics fed morbid
curiosity, the news. 
Storms, westward sent,
swayed towering maples.
Lightning cracked Ohio’s sky
wherein thunder rolled evermore.
What was, was more than enough.
And humor was not in uniform;
nature’s lush raiment dressed
for a formal event, starched.
Irony is somehow lost on
the banality of nature;
the sun, the wind
and the storms.


32 Lines
Writer’s Cramp Winner
6-24-20