Spring is heavy.
A pregnant child (impregnated by the spermatozoa of winter's rain)
it smells like the yolk of life

A gangling debutante,
it flaunts its new, flaxen-grey hair
with the sexiness of a grand harlot.

It labours with the dignity
of childbearing,
spewing forth lilacs that lie low.

Dearest Pollen,
how do I sneeze out the cold courage
to arrest the spring situation?

Four seasons make one spring.
The yelling consequences of
Ailing metaphors splice slackly with the
Raw mentality of renascence.

by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu

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