The Rites of Spring
A named Mercury plies the air
above his fountain
in the Phipps Conservatory.
Children wet their fingers
in the receiving pool
and stare
up at possibilities
that may enable them
someday
to match the blossoming
in the Amazonian Room.
Co-eds with athletic boys,
muscular Pitts and tall Duquesnes,
meander through
the scented aisles,
enlisting spirits of the place
to augment flirtatious smiles.
Wedding guests accompany
a bride and groom
who set their basic blue
amidst the foil
of dappled bloom
and celebrate their day
with words they’ve learned to say.
Then from a group home crowd
a single swain steps forth
and casts his gaze on all around
and asks the god,
“O where is my Marilyn;
who took my Marilyn away?”
I cannot answer him
and the god above,
as silent as a stone,
appears to have no power--
no balloons or wedding bells
or maps to Love’s sweet bower.
When the saddened lover asks again,
"O Marilyn; who took my Marilyn away?"
she appears,
not taken, only loaned,
to trees and flowers
and charmingly atones
for all her wandering.
Standing before the door,
she smiles broadly at her lover.
I see him see her.
Our hearts soar.
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