Sandro Botticelli, La Primavera, c.1482
A Spring Night (in March)
What it is to be
alive,
to know this twinkling
ice of stars,
to know the burn
of untouched scars,
to riot with the
daffodil
when the light is
terrible,
and terrible
before the dark
the perfect time of
shudder-earth,
the birth of all there
is to care
in the vixen’s
stolen glare,
the rolling on of hours
when her warmth offers
flowering fruit,
and winter is, at
last, consumed?
Orla Fay
