I am invariably unimpressed by spring. Warm weather and sun aren’t traits that I find becoming. But still… spring does mean that you can wear clothes that you wouldn’t wear otherwise. So here is an outfit that I recently assembled:
Also, here is a spring poem that was first published on Lambada. It’s authoress is the marvelous Monica McClure. If I was a boy who liked girls I would probably like Monica McClure, and we would most likely live in a really special place, and only those cognizant of certain things would be able to keep company with us:
Problems of Spring
It’s not my fault; the moon is shining through me.
Naturally, the most romantic steps forward
to say he swallowed a daffodil for every lover he’s had.
I can see where they dimple his stomach, I can see
the hardiness of arms, the artless shoveling
he’ll do from night to joyful morning.
To release me will dry his mouth to lemon,
I know, but I need the gaze of a man more than rain.
Another Bacchanalia in April, and I have only
half a body to dance, half to steady a canyon.
Nobody knows how to stay or leave. It’s not my fault,
although the way white blossoms look like hail
when they’re thrashed in a storm—it’s a pity.