I went to sleep with formulas written
in my eyes, but I could hardly read them;
the symbols were strange, the message hidden,
but all meanings will come when I need them:
Am I feeling impatient, though, for change?
The springtime wind feels awful refreshing,
as it fills my room with pollen and strange
bubbles of thought, ever effervescing:
Effervescent until evanescent –
one moment in bloom, next day I'm a mess,
sitting on my carpet or lying, spent,
in the bed I built with a dream, hapless:
So this change would be, therefore, constancy –
that spirit of fresh that sparks constantly.
urbansonnets 