This poem is made up of real observations, and that is all it is. No symbolism, metaphor, irony, or other so-called literary device will be found in it, unless these things occur in nature and in the events described in the poem. Do not take this poem to be a creation, but rather as a record or document of meteorology, or just of general things.
Today was the spring equinox,
the first day of spring.
(actually that may have been
a few days ago.)
It ought to have been warm --
that's what you'd expect
from the first day of that season
of growing, and that's not
to say it was entirely cold,
but it wasn't too warm.
The buds on the cherry trees,
those blossoming pink buds
have started to unfold themselves,
showing me their white innards --
they hope to meet the bees
who'll help them have sex.
(plant sex, that is. i shouldn't
say it's much like human sex.)
Snow crystals fell on the buds,
first sloppy wet,
but then some legitimate
fluffy snow on them.
This past winter it snowed one time.
And melted in the night.
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