The Harshness of Spring

I’m stalking the forest but ignoring the trees
That scream “press your body against me, imbed, rape me.”
I’m after mud puddles, actually.
Going to stomp them into a splish-splash percussion,
Tramp and splatter them like a White Russian
Upon a Mongol-bred steed that prances irreverently
Making a muck.

So I fuck up the forest.
It’s shit out of luck.