Het is weekend. En lente.

Now that forsythia hangs pendulous beside the sun dial,
And the magnolia not yet uncurling, lifts her white thumbs
Like almonds peeled to the quick;
I am become a precious and a thin-blown phial
Holding an essence sweeter far than crumbs
Of honeycomb. Approach me gently. Never a flick
Of finger lay upon me, lest this wine
Mount in the vase, and by no will of mine
But its own heady substance gathering,
Burst its frail sheath, and spatter you with Spring!
Prettig weekend. En be nice.