Spring, Mutability

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.