March twenty-first:
The vernal equinox of yore
Now lauded as “World Poetry Day”.
Perhaps the astronomical association
Adds a touch of floridness
To the date;
New-spring journals once filled with pressed flowers
Now give up their bounties to make room
For pages of epithets
To be leafed through rarely,
Like the rare still-wild field
Unsalted with concrete ruins.
In libraries, in classrooms,
Maybe even in magazines
Verses, not unlike to this, will be noted
For their literary embellishment
Of the habitual.
Daily goings-on given a stained-glass
Projection into the Superb.
And then, tomorrow,
Society’s sober return
To a wonderless quotidian.


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