Green   Spring in New England — a violence of green, sudden, hysterical verdure, a paint bomb blast leaving everything drenched in green that burns, that renders absurd the last faint faltering memory of winter, green of every shade, depth, tint, mood, height, and hue, the fresh, blinking-itself-to-life green we call tender, velvet green that tells you why they made the money green, urgent green mad for the sun, for photosynthesis, for the alchemies of summertime, green to resurrect the dead, green to twist your heart with envy that you are not green, not anymore, not like this — not like this.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont May 2015