Seeing Aphrodite in April
Her quicksilver passing,
so achingly beautiful
in it's announcement
of the fertile cacophony
of Nature recumbent,
makes it hard not to fall
hopelessly in love
with a moment, fixing it
forever in the heart
like an insect in amber.
Perhaps it is just
this fleeting precursor of potency,
the promise proffered
prior to blossoming,
embodied in pre-pubescent girls,
which is so miserly-prized
by desperate old goats,
as if they could capture Spring
in their hands and stave off
their advancing decrepitude
by deflowering the bud
before it blooms.
