There’s something of Spring that makes us self-deceive,
that makes-believe the world has never sinned.
A dozen squinting Adams search for Eve
through a sunlight that’s not yet warmed the wind.
Weary of winter, the clearing is brim full
of hairless legs all goose-fleshed from the cold
while older souls still wrap themselves in wool
and laugh that all the sun-starved skin has somehow turned to gold.
Each strutting boy pretends the world is his.
What beautiful nonsense is born of this?
A sunbeam sweeps over the grass and is
a thing as fleeting as a stranger’s kiss.
Clear but coy, the sky is a blue-eyed tease;
she winks and smiles, but tomorrow she may freeze.