A Chelsea Park in Spring

Fly.

The silent twirls
of diving blossoms
are butterflies urged
to kiss the earth.

Spinning down thru Sunday calm
to lay beneath maternal limbs
held out with shading hands,
they are the lightly fallen.

They are the makers
of white petaled floors,
in final flutter
on tiny wings of bloom.

Stand.

Along the fence, lean glistening,
a silent army holds:
one mauve-tipped lavender,
one rich vanilla cream
licked with scarlet flames:

Tulips! Abounding, airing,
fluid and queenlike!
Outstretched beauty
on sleek fuels of green,
rising up to color cupped!

The hollow fingers
loft each flawlessness,
like damsels parading
before the eyes of a city.

Dance.

Full round fragrant bushels-

bold, heavy swaying blooms!

They bounce and tug,
trying at the arching tines
umbrellaed from
an age-thick cherry trunk.

The tree is a stout woman
in heaven's elaborate hat

drooped pink and wide,

content amid her bounty.
She is rich

as a son who walks
the evening in love;

rich as the summer's sea,
washed and perfumed

brilliant by the season.

Sing.

A soft game
of cloud-then-sun
over the breezy clang
of chains, bikes, buses,

and spiked iron gates
which proudly defend
the bench and flowering day.

Gleed out children
exert their right
to run and yell thru April's tossing.

Quiet men
invoke their right
to sit and sigh
thru April's blessing.