You might have butterflies
for no reason, all antsy
as if in anticipation
of the leaves’ first look-and-see-me.
You might crack your nut trying to take in
the what of it, its here and this
while it lifts its skirts to brush by you,
fleeting past with one light kiss.
Bare-knuckled sycamores start wearing green.
Cherry blossom froths and pirouettes
in a brook, trickling past these streets
and estates, sloshing beneath tarmac,
visible here, underground there, everywhere
guzzling as the narrow-banked brook
rushes beyond scraggy reeds and weed tufts,
cacked plastics, sewer scurf, beer-can stooks,
streaming along in the green-glinted leaf-swish
and ripple of a petal-scented zing,
and with it flows all that we know of the here-
it-comes and there-it-goes of everything.