Denial

Too much the rapture of an earthbound spring
prevails, surpassing lovers' agony,
too many willows full of glory stream
like fountains there along the path
while history may languish free of art.
The queen of seasons is a harlot blessed
by her eternal youth, a tart redeemed.
Come forth, my muse of airy head and heart,
and dance for me, dissolve my crusted mind
with your inane delight where content flies
away like skittish dreams when darkness dies
and color sweeps away the night.

It is my right to thus betray
a January day.
~