February And Beyond

Whatter?

Stealing a march on April,
Hail sleet, curtained grey rain:
chunk, platt, shush, splatter.
Spring burst its cloudbanks
turn to huge raindrops. Cute,
after I leave the car in suit.
I thought it stopped but paused
for new mode.
                           "Hi! Mr Seventh?"
A Hutchins - little shoot shot
to a quarter century - detaining me
in this amazing downpour
so refreshing, soaking in
to beam and be so alive
in his greeting it baptizes me.

Leaving bank minutes later
sun shines innocently, whistling
cleaning fingernails. Nods, winks.
Clear sky. Ooh, blue. But noo!

Sly cloud flapping overhead
drops its beatific mutes
of dropdown raindrops. Gottcha!
Then of course a rainbow is
obligatory, slapped across the sky,
sticky fingers from the glue.

Do you know I crack open
both front windows, wet and cold?
I knew it, swoon in blossom honey:
I would lick you, Spring, until
you tingled all over and my tongue
numb in dumb praise.

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