Every Spring
by Alan Gann

ecstatic dandelions
sprout and bloom and puff
rulers of the unmowed field
and we feel the pull
of goofy grin sweaty palms
pounding heart infatuation.
After all no rational person truly believes
in the one and only soul mate.
Thunder bellows
then rain drenches the eager grass
and we might strip off our clothes
to spin free, except we understand
it’s all chemical,
phenylethylamine and oxytocin,
that real love is built over seasons
brick by experienced brick
so we sit by the window and watch
the lightning flash
sip our hot black coffees
and have to talk about it.
If nobody believes in one and only
why can’t we throw up our hands and trust
the humid promise of spice
and palm and a nodding moon.
After all there must be any number of people
right for me and right for you
at least until you’ve met the one
and embraced inevitable loss—
then all the others begin to fade
seeming, in the end, slightly absurd.

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