Is it Spring Yet?

No. But you would think
from the tingle in my brain
that something is abuzz perhaps
a new way of looking at the streets
with their strollers and dusty salt.
Not even the faintest bud on a branch
to lift gray brown into pale green.
Still, something is happening
not the smell of snow, that acrid
rind, but something, oh, what is it?
Maple, honey, vanilla? A human
cupcake dancing in the wind?
I'll follow you anywhere. Oh, all those
people who fade along the way.
As soon as I leave they say what they say.
Float up to the ceiling and never come back.
Everybody has their face on a stamp,
they thumbscrew circle while the city sparkles,
and sleepwalk stiffly up to the sky.
I'll be right there, or here.