Mary Lou Meyers’ Perfect “Spring Fling” Poem

Mary Lou’s poem is a great example of the fickleness of spring.
Spring entices us even months before
with its courtly breeze that brings an “at ease,”
plays us hiding behind bright fans of daffodils,
some that come sailing down the creek months before
and dig into fertile moist areas,
their bright yellow stains marring the gray landscape.



Spring has no steadfast rules,
it often plays its rapt audience for a fool,
thinking it gains the upper hand
because the calendar chants Spring’s tunes too soon,
letting frost line the most delicate of blooms,
leaving them exposed and undermined.




But the battle is not lost, only the cost of a few daffodils,
and magnolia blossoms for the sun has etched
its way into the graveyard of winter
and will finally have its way in May
when true Spring gathers up its momentum,
each day more precious than the one before
when maples send winged messengers that touch down and spread the news. 







Soon peonies like porcelain will be filled with unearthly wisdom
and spill at the slightest touch like a goblet of the gods,
but first drink their summer-scented nectar
and imagine the power you have derived
from at last feeling “fully alive.”


May makes mockery of April’s feeble attempts,
stays long enough to ignite the meadows with blooms
and start the fires of June.

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