Tough Love

Spring can be tough love,
like waves caressing warm, white sand
but fracturing the backs of the running scared.
And those tentative, fragrant darlings that
break free of encapsulation,
to peek for snow.

This spring is tough love
for black and brown and yellow good nature,
with the world turning too fast.
The hangers on, hiding from debacles,
blame the gods or voters.
And all eyes miss the birth of change.

Another spring of tough love.
Once, the weather was the changing exhibition of
art in the sky and in the soil.
But this time around the paint is tainted and red:
artists run after it in the gutters;
those providing it are very still.

Spring was always tough love.
Some change never changes;
other transformation has a human smile.
So, my love, bring your possibilities
and kiss me, as I ask,
“Where are you summer?”

©2011 Hey Hey