I am the Spring

My blue smoke which lungs purge out
leaves my temple and becomes one
with all that is and was and will be.
The Green Knight's luminosity I see,
Springs coming--He's hiding in the White fir trees.
My legs kicked up, toes chilled
at the end of my bare feet, as I sit.
I listen to the coming of spring,
married to the aged winter, old,
dying.
The pregnant sky pours that life,
and the earth recieves it with subtle song;
the sweet rhythm of the rain,
that dead grass, those strangled blades,
as one they breathe. Pulse. Green,
as the paleness recedes, that whiteness secedes--
and out of the quiet, I hear a roar...
motorcycles out of hybernation
come to life once more, and here I am.
I bore through the words of the dead
bringing them immortality
wishing at once, that I could be
immortal. And here I am.
I am becoming the literature as I sit,
as I put out that ember in the tray,
as I look to the sky and watch it fall,
as my fingers tap-tap on the keyboard.
as I lick the backside of my stamp for this world.
I put it here, here
with the birth of a new season,
is the birth of new craftiness,
new words, for someone to read,
to label and chew up, to criticize.
Here is my legend, world,
I wish you'd digest it.
I hope it leaves an everlasting taste
in your mouth.
Bitter.
Sweet.