From My Car in Late Spring

I’m not one who will say,
“This is the name of the flower,”
so the petals flocking up from the river
behind the trees are only a beauty
I cannot name (like, of course,
the other beauties).
Wonder names it though,
hectic shadows
at the intersection of Wyndham and Finch,
shifting between their lives
of pink and white.
They trick me into, then out of
this Spring of existence, as if it might be,
just for this moment,
a feather struggling to carry
its weight of light.

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