November 2006

November Defrosted

The vernal nymph is here with me,
Now searing sun, now pelting rain.
One day brings hail; the next may be
A kiln to burst the withered tree
And blow its ashes down the lane.

She's flighty, never one to stay
For long in any mood. She, list-
less, brushing cirrus art away,
Repaints my vista turgid grey,
Then steams it with her radiant mist.

The doused then dessicated trees,
The pristine turned to gritty sky,
Are what this Melbourne dweller sees
Of springtime's thoughtless pranks, but these
Are always welcome. Ask me why.

No matter what she throws, I know
At worst it lasts for hours or days;
I fear no months of silent snow,
No ice encrusted hunger; so,
For this alone she merits praise.