I’d be searching for the mystic spring, the one who comes from deep within, like a figure lost in ancient times. This Flora has little affinity with the eternal winter of our dark era. Her pure vowels rise from pristine depths and every utterance reacquaints the land with ancient sources. It would be hard not to believe in the true springs of the imagination when you see, once more, the half-smile on her lips which you have craved as if for thousands of years. And so I will believe.
Some version of Zephyr or Boreas
I’d borrow for my own Primavera -
an eternal wakening breeze of spring
that can sing from within winter’s body.
But not gentle spring alone returning
with her forty different shapes of flower -
I’d have the early Flora herself,
the mystic spring who went missing in time
and who may yet step forth from this tired soul.
Spring in every utterance, pure vowels
acquainting ancient lands with bright new wells -
and on her lips the half-smile I crave most.
Best wishes, today,
Picture: Flora, from Primavera by Botticelli
©Jay Landar 2013. All rights reserved
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