The City Springs A Question On Fist

"Light flows through me. It mingles amongst my many streets, warms the women feeding birds, there on the benches, and the men striding the path through the park for a break; bright blue, it calls the buds up through the earth, daffodils, bluebells, and tulips soon too, and the birds start to swoop and to sing; the buildings glow like a chin (lit up by a buttercup), even the streets - so hard and mean they once did seem - have lost the blare and bluster, every car is mildly on some mellow meander; even the litter, the endless litter, is merely loitering without intent, dancing and drifting, with energy and elevation, with all that the City is soon to be sent - already begun - what I mean to say is, look here, it's Spring!

"Now, Fist," questionned the City, just this afternoon, "Fist, Fist, Fist. What dark little twist can you possibly put upon all of this? Why not speak to I, the City, as a tree hears a nesting bird, with just one simple word? (The word, Fist, being: Friend.) And why not look to unhand yourself along some young thing's neck (already their blouses are looser, opening), as soft as a dove -"

"And sing a song that ends in love?" I interupted. "Love, Dove? (Sing spring's wing?!) Heaven's above, such a school-child rhyme, stolen from a pop tune. I'd rather be cold and fruitless, like the moon, than chant your false hymn.

"O City in Spring, what do you bring? Wasps and bees are bullets of pain, flying out from a hand-like hive; and what will clean the streets, if not the slap of hard winter rain? And what are flowers but fists, forcing up through the black earth, powering through the death-dream of winter, the diseased dirt? O City, I shall speak of Spring. But not the way your postcards were picturing."