Days of spring

And so in this glowing light, they dance, like puppets on a string… Mere slaves to the onslaughts, of the orange blossoms of spring. With percolated senses, and fragrant essence on morning dew, I gaze from a distance, at a crystal sphere, that ponders the restless mind. How it radiates, a nucleus so subtle, yet divine, to breach the will of iron casts, and seduce the marbled hearts of men, still reeling with scars of winter’s decay? Abate this resistance with the sweet acoustics that angels may bring, on these heavenly-acquainted days, of spring…