The crisp smell of Fall has long since wandered away.
And I just realized today, to my surprise,
that I miss it.
Crisp, earthy, experient, and contemplative things-
no forced refreshments.
This feeling of frustration, tightly coiled,
set to Spring
My wounds spoiled
Spring, Spring! Talk to me not of Spring,
for in the still I struggle.
I could break my teeth on unready apples.
We haven’t yet gotten rid of Winter;
had a funeral for the funeral of seasons
But I’m stranded back at the hospital room.
Rings of rust-color,
on the walls.
They painted to cover one last time-
yes, I remember, it’s in my mind-
before falling victim to the brumal claim.
Everything is cyclical.
So sit a little.
the Winter wind blew so cold and sharp
and carved out clear ideas from the vague ones in my head.
Consider how it’s been
a particularly bleak and overcast Winter,
and has kept me under a wonderfully oppressive low ceiling of
forcing me to a frenzy of trying to make brilliance.
They say everything is bursting, sprouting, but it is not.
It is still.
And in Spring, there’s perhaps only one out there
commiserating with my dolefulness.
Though I don’t know if I can trust even her.
The weeping willow’s a widow,
yet she wears a veil of green.
This limbo’s so dense,
I cannot see the newly-foliated trees
for the forest.