Spring came and went with its typical rush,
arriving Friday at noon when the late
Winter breeze suddenly vanished. No lush
colors emerge from frost here, nor do great
bowers unfurl. In Houston, a weekend
is all that we get, humid and sticky
and uncomfortably wet. The live oaks tend
to stay green year round, while a hushed quickie
is the best the rutting, local fauna
can manage to scratch their primordial
itch, in this, a city that’s more sauna
than metro. And then, with its cordial,
not-yet-blistering heat, Summer returned
by Sunday evening, and Spring had adjourned.
god america i 