In Praise of Spring

The shift in seasons reminded me of a poem I wrote in college during my e.e. cummings period. I was quite fond of wandering around campus in the wee hours.

2 a.m. in spring

blooming into april neverdarkness
alive with lush green whispers
brazenly unfurling petals for a pale moon
who smiles at fevered spring eyes.
wild feet kiss fresh grass lips
lately wetted by dew's first --
poetry in the trees, these leaves
that rush against one another
like the lines of a sonnet, rhythmic
rustling words of lovers, spoken
during these hours of sleeping
when the light across town burns,
a little daylight saved for me.