Regrets for a Late Spring

May is April as I am yours,
in the lime sweet morning
of sun too long withheld,
now almost warm
but for a breeze that flickers,
shedding magnolia petals.

I am yours as May is April,
with an elusive warmth
between the long, slow winds
that scatter blossoms on the waking grass;
no white and poignant bridse of trees this year,
nor is it really spring.

5/17/1967