Lovers lie together in the park.
Their heads, so near to touching,
are cradled in their palms.
Birds take to the sky en masse,
then turn hard north, cupped
like a hand to hold the sun.
Wind from due south; daffodils
rising from the earth, awakened
in the middle of their sleep.
Squirrels run their slalom races
across the toes of startled oaks
as dogs chase - wild with instinct.
The roses wear spring dresses
of pale yellow and flirt
with beetles.
While beyond the horizon,
beyond tomorrow, Winter's
faithful clock ticks February,
and it waits,
sure of its profession,
like a raised hammer.
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