Quick

A QUICKening
And comes
The spring
From winter’s bed;
Croci come
QUICK from the Dead.
QUICK-freezes fade,
QUICKsilver rises,
A QUICKtime March-parade
Surprises.
Cut to the QUICK,
Winter pardons.
Cuttings I cut
QUICK-set my gardens.
QUICK wits amaze.
QUICK tempers blaze,
But poet’s sigh
And “Give the Truth
To summer’s lie.”
A QUICKsand stop
And summer sinkage
By autumn’s cop
To autumn’s linkage.
SLOW we enter
Cummings’ winter
And die...
“Nature’s
Pharmacy
To Being’s
Malady,”
Says Emily.