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every day is a green day

By B.I. Kukla
it’s not spring when the bloom is visibly raging
it’s the riot of tiny purple fists in our eyes
their demand to stay and last
while wisterian ink of jealousy
writes into everyone’s nerves one stubborn verse
the fear of fading into oblivion
in spite of dramatic thunder of scent
of a quick season of dissent

and the landscape is starved for breathable air
it longs to live the usual life of background green
in its endless library of overlooked hues
painted by faithful kisses of the sun

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