Spring by John Fritzell

Spring

The wind today
makes a quick-change
in the theater
of my winter-worn yard,

you can hear her rushing
backstage
uncovering the smell
of nightcrawlers,

high-throated cries
of blackbirds,
and the whine of far-off
eighteen-wheelers

hell-bent on speeding
things along,
and now she quickly
strips-off

the last act’s collection,
an empty can of Red Bull,
a white plastic bag,
a lost hydrangea’s head,

and that cold piece of Tyvek,
fallen from her shoulders,
now loosely swaddling
the trunks of the lilacs.

by John Fritzell

Editor’s Note: This poem’s brilliant use of personification upends the usual ode to spring with a pragmatic twist of imagery.