No stranger to me is Spring’s sweet chicanery 

Fleeting and fevered in deluge and dreams. 

The way pitch clouds pour over whispered words 

And drown out discernment in din and dirge. 

Yet glimpses of gaps piped in pyrite persist 

To siren souls of the unwise or unfit. 

Her familiar façade bears foreign allure, 

Novel recurrence with intentions obscured, 

And so my heart clings to grandeur or guise, 

Reluctant for refuge in the eye of the mind. 

To wait in the squall or shelter in the eaves, 

If one is more wise it remains to be seen.

Analysis