MUSED
BellaOnline Literary Review
Tampa Bay Sunset by Lisa Shea

Table of Contents

Poetry


Chicago Spring

Marchell Dyon

It is spring then it is not spring
When seeds on trees refuse to open
When no dandelion strives against the sidewalk

I know it is not spring when I for myself
I shovel out snow off my terrace
When itís the cold wind that sings not birdsongs

When ice panes the window glass
So caricatured with snow flakes
Its brilliance shifts from white to crystal blue

The sun tries to melt the white surround
The wind keeps to its banshee scream
The sun shines brighter today at my window

Then my eyes do fool me that itís spring
Its spring when the Farmersí Almanac says itís spring
I stop in my labor to watch my neighbor

He is my neighbor because his condo cave is next to mine
On his terrace he shovels out the same layer of snow I do
Then he lays out again foil peeling flower pots

He is growing tomatoes
Tomatoes, premature oval fruit
To incubate in this far from topical sun

His tomatoes are mute on the vine
Their color does not sing tomatoes
Although, they are green

The green color is eye popping to me
In this semi winder wonder less world
When it is spring then itís not spring.




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