Spring, Mutability Poem by Max Reif

This is the place
Where only last week
All barriers were down—
Heaven surged
Directly into Creation,
Laying bare
God's every secret.

Here beside this hill
Hundreds of pink
Ballet-dancers
Stood poised upon
These branches,
Pirouetting and leaping
In the breeze-

Or was it a single bride
With dancers embroidered
On her gown—

A bride embraced
By that lover
Right over there
Sporting his new,
Gold suit, the color
Of First Light?

Already the dancers
are gone from the branches
And the leaves remaining
Resemble only ash,

While the nearby lover
Has changed into
His work suit of drab,
Midsummer-green.

My eyes strain
To find where
That Opening was,

Incredulous that Nature
Can so quickly divest
Her bride and groom,
Leaving no memento
Of their recent glory.