The Parade of Roses has begun again.
By the dozens they march,
long-legged and glorious.
Heart-shaped balloon-tails float above
frail petals & stuffed puppets,
witless paper sentiments &
sugar-soaked declarations of fidelity.
Ephemeral centerpieces of Love
adorn doorsteps and office desks
to be unwrapped, marveled, devoured
or to wilt away, hung
upside-down, dried out and pressed
between hopeful pages of tomorrow's history.
Bundle after bunch, they promenade
past wondering eyes on watchful faces,
into the outspread arms of the admired.
In my doorway, I tap my shoes of February's sludge.
A deliveryman scurries down the footpath.
I watch him pass and dream
of the March of green ale and clovers.