poem

 Dead Spring

In my spring nothing grows

Leafless trees splay 

Across the sky 

As frazzle headed wicks 

Of burned down candles 

Too smoked to know they’re dead 

No grass needs mowed

No buds or blooms

It’s a season bereft of color—

At least of any that I can see.

I only know it’s spring

By the shift in the wind 

But no matter

Soon it will be sweltering summer

Everything moist and sticky

The drone of bees

And crabgrass and weeds

Everyone just gives up and sweats

Fanning themselves on screened porches 

Too languorous to utter a single word

I look forward to the fall,

A ferrous feuille morte explosion

Of amber saffron auburn—

I see every gash of gamboge 

I am awash again in vibrant color.

4/26/22