Spring is heavy.
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
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
spewing forth lilacs that lie low.
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.