The spring is dense, intense
as if to give a permanent shape
to our feeling
the jackfruit's resinous fibers
when cut, are like our brains
a sweetness stored in humility
and thoughts in fruits, half-fruits, strands.
The spring is momentous
for small things, buds
while the broad leaves wilt
and wait to fall
thrilled by the shrill cries
of their long-awaited sprout.
Footfalls crunching the leaves
are softened by a green silence
washing the worn habit of glance
to rapt curiosity, and eyes
absorb the leaves overlapped in different shades.
The mute resonance of park
occupies my unsteady walk
and wonder, shy to ask
receives the sparkle of shrubberies
like a sudden turn of phrase.
Spring changes the way we speak
the climbers have intertwined
the bars of gate
and smiling bluebells are amused
at my utterances; which cannot mean
as much as their blueness could.