If we were bees
we might be basking.
Pollen falling on everything
would be fantastic.
We’d gather it in our baskets
and bring it to the queen.
But all those golden pigments
are unintended allergens.
Little demons grinning
as they spew the dust
that leaves us dolorous
with crust
in the corners
of our eyes.
So we must arm ourselves
with handkerchiefs
and be grateful for the breeze
for as the spring emerges
so do the fucking trees.
Studio of Pietro Antonio Rotari (Verona 1707-1762 Saint Petersburg)