As our thoughts turn to such things
Purported to be the province of springtime,
We search the skies, the flora, the dirt its ownself
For portents and signs, some nod from the ether
Suggesting the arrival of completing part,
Some corner piece to our lovelorn jigsaw puzzle
(Such burning bushes not extant in the cosmos,
Merely chimeras and red herrings
Sprung full blown from our wishes and imaginings)
And having perhaps said the hell with all that,
We find ourselves bamboozled, wholly undone
By something subterranean to our longing,
A soft giggle, a smile we'd overlooked heretofore
Subsequently awash in a thing of some divination
Wholly beyond our notion of free will
(But such conceptions just schoolbook fol-de-rol,
Rendered superfluous by the embrace
Of that which, had we had a choice,
We'd have embraced without a whisper of hesitation)
And having our preconceptions scattered
Like so many petals of some loves-me-loves me not daisy,
We titter softly under our breath,
As our deities are not the only ones to have a chuckle
At our well-thought-out conniving.