This one’s pretty straightforward. It may help to know that I now live in Sedona, Arizona, where there is a plethora of breathtaking sandstone rock formations; also, when I was a kid and in the family car and we pulled up alongside a truck, if I caught the trucker’s eye and made a horn-honking gesture, often he (or she, but there didn’t seem to be any female truckers back then) would oblige me by honking his horn.

Here are the words to the non-acrostic:

from winter sprung

to spend an equinoctial time
in maximal vernal rapture
it may behoove to grow a sparse goatee
that the plucky breeze might riffle
all seventy-three hairs of its chin portion
the while you stride through
   & converse with
   the array of petrified sand
   that is popularly misnamed ‘the red rocks’

when you tell the array it is majestic
it glows a bit more fiercely
tooting its visual horn the way
   a truck driver toots his sonic one
   if asked to via gesture

when you ask the array what awes it
your attention is directed to trees
   fluffy in soft-blossomed lavender
and you are also commanded
   to go home
   kiss your lovely girlfriend
   and feel the g r a t i t u d e
   that Spring evokes