diatribalArts

Spring came and sat on my arm. A mosquito—a newborn to suckle on veins bulging like a breast with milk…skin pursed like lips pink-flushed after a lingering kiss and fluids exchanged. Spring came and dappled with pollen (fluorescent green) my black car. Seed spent on machine; it begs for it to be a part of it all…to hide its machine-ness (it doesn’t feel it so much in colder months). Spring came to hide the last of the leaves, now sticky with sap, with green growth that climbs on its shoulders and feeds on its compost, and for a brief moment it reminds of the past, the fall and the future still to come. Spring came with bright, verdant greens that stand in contrast to that well worn, wizened green deep with last season’s age and a long winter endured. Spring came and beckoned forth the irrepressible dandelion which like lions are kings—kings of the yard that proudly raise their maned heads over freshly tamed grass which gladly yield to the lions’ pride and many dande-cubs. Spring came with bright flashes that for some moment recalls the day in the middle of night; the air filled with the pungency of electric moisture not yet fallen but held back by dark billowing arms that soon will tire and drop their heavy burdens and spilling, pool…and pooling, breed more mosquitoes…and breeding…more blood to be suckled…