Spring
Lola Ridge
A spring wind on the Bowery, Blowing the fluff of night shelters Off bedraggled garments, And agitating the gutters, that eject little spirals of vapor Like lewd growths. Bare-legged children stamp in the puddles, splashing each other, One—with a choir-boy’s face Twits me as I pass… The word, like a muddied drop, Seems to roll over and not out of The bowed lips, Yet dewy red And sweetly immature. People sniff the air with an upward look— Even the mite of a girl Who never plays… Her mother smiles at her With eyes like vacant lots Rimming vistas of mean streets And endless washing days… Yet with sun on the lines And a drying breeze. The old candy woman Shivers in the young wind. Her eyes—littered with memories Like ancient garrets, Or dusty unaired rooms where someone died— Ask nothing of the spring. But a pale pink dream Trembles about this young girl’s body, Draping it like a glowing aura. She gloats in a mirror Over her gaudy hat, With its flower God never thought of… And the dream, unrestrained, Floats about the loins of a soldier, Where it quivers a moment, Warming to a crimson Like the scarf of a toreador… But the delicate gossamer breaks at his contact And recoils to her in strands of shattered rose.
