How many sticky buds, candle ends <br />sprout from the branches! Steaming <br />April. Puberty sweats from the park, <br />and the forest’s blatantly gleaming. <br /> <br />A noose of feathered throats grips <br />the wood’s larynx, a lassoed steer, <br />netted, like a gladiatorial organ, <br />it groans steel-piped sonatas here. <br /> <br />Poetry! Be a Greek sponge with suckers, <br />among green stickiness drenched, <br />I’ll consent, by the sopping wood <br />of a green-stained garden bench. <br /> <br />Grow sumptuous pleats and flounces, <br />suck up the gullies and clouds, <br />Poetry, tonight, I’ll squeeze you out <br />to make the parched sheets flower.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spring-185/
