Spring has swept in, silver and wanting,
and the swinging of the axis
is giving me nausea as the seas
slosh back and forth like a bathtub
full of wild and foam.
Time wends its way between
my interlaced fingers as I clutch
a river close to my heart
and spit out peach pits
where water batters against
the swollen banks.
They spin away on currents,
pinging off crumbling rock
and soil as it slides from its
slate foundations.
Black rotted things that accrued
in Winter, like the layers of snow
and ice captured in a frozen lattice,
are expunged by rosy sunrise.
“Spring is for cutting.”
My father snatched a grapevine
from the fence and smelled the
green splintering out from its
brown-haired casing.
Growth is all about pruning.
He steps back twice and views
his work. What is in sight
is sad but promises bounty.
Daffodils have rushed to the surface,
greedily reaching for the sun
with tender green spikes.
But March is a capricious
season and with a frosty smile,
She transfixes them, cold.
Every morning I ask a purpose
and a draw a milky blank,
smooth like the casein
that binds my china back together.
Just when I think I’ve escaped,
Amnesiac Spring’s pharyngeal jaw
darts out to bite me.
Bide your precious time;
Spring is not for blooming.