So spring has come,
Oh Jesus,
not again.
The cold has sunk too deep; too frozen now
the furrows of my heart; for any plow
would splinter here;
this chill-swept, dark terrain.
No, not for me;
this year, let me abstain.
Let wither further, wither all, allow
cold, stiff corrosion to gnaw at every vow.
Numb every oath, let nothing pure remain.
The only purity
is purity of ice,
for spring's encroachment on the land
brings but a new,
capricious tyranny.
Each year this joke gets harder to withstand:
that leaves sprout new, that swallows come on wing,
that mourners laugh, that winter
melts to
spring.

I still think this is the best thing I've ever written. Originally published in the Filling station calendar way back in, uh, '96 or so, I think. There is one defective line metrically (though I think it's a defensible variation) in the poem: a year's subscription FOR FREE to anyone who can point it out.

Photo by He and Fi.

Labels: Thinking