It was inevitable: the scent of a bitter
bloom rising, opening, reminding u.s.
Au contraire, you are not gods.
Who shall be found still standing in
fields of green once this virulent
spring has wrung its dreadly course?
For starters, he who hath clean hands,
stayeth home, and toucheth not her face.
Yet this we do know: little will be as it
was before. Little, that is, but love.