This is the spring

This is the spring of slow walks,
the spring of gradually growing up.
There were springs that careened in on unicycles,
drunk before the party started;
the spring of kite-flying on the rooftop:
triangles of color splashed against the skyline,
which was splashed against the sky.

This is the spring of the cubicle
and a man who treats me well.
This is the spring of conflicting desires,
but I guess they've all been that.

This spring will turn out like the others:
done, settled into summer's density,
tinted in memory by the corner I'm living on this year,
with its busy sidewalk,
its small, steep incline,
its temporary green.