It is spring.
No, summer imposed οnto autumn that should have been winter, that is.
Dandelions are still here, full-pedaled, but dehydrated and tired,
bowing in exasperation toward arid ground
in search of a reason for such overdue, servile existence;
Life seems to drag on and on with no apparent reason,
way post-purpose in postponment.
The periodic mathematics of living have been outdated
by the infinite and indefinite irrationality of chaos
and no theorem can stand up to this perseverance of mutant existence .
The waiting game is not fun any more
and there is no fun in waiting for the game, either.
The time when flowers kill themselves is now.
And now is long overdue
because of the memory of some past, long-passed morning dew.