In Spring

Puddles of tin, rains of lead
Flowers harden to plates
Of silver, gold, white and red,
All embellished in their states
Of a wise man's nonsense;
The child who I have grown to be
And now a man beyond sense
Under what maturity glorifies liberty
Makes a universe for our solitude,
Alive only through the irony of the Brother
—The Lawless Lovers and the divine mood
Of the transparent embryo of their Mother.