But for red weather, fear
and pre-emptive measure,
Spring must wait another year,
For this enraged contagion
cares little for the bloom
that compels us to meet again
In the parks, in the garden
centers, sifting through annuals
for just the right shade of blue.
Yes, Spring is closed this year,
and all that gathers are flies,
the hasty recoil of hands,
And the long-sought urge toward We.