one thing i noticed this weekend was the swelling of the buds, the awakening of trees after a six month long sleep, and it got me wondering why, every single year, spring retains its element of surprise. leaves could come out in mid june and i would be flabbergasted.
winter, each year, is a given, the solidity of its presence unquestionable, the sheer length of it burning itself into even the most soggy brain. spring, though, now that's a different story! wow! look, mr. m! the little buds are out! soon leaves will come out! spring! it's here! along with all its exclamation points (unlike the frozen ellipses of winter).
and so, blaming the season, i will now share a poem that i wrote fairly recently although i have no recollection of the event. perhaps i was under the influence. it does happen.
now don't make fun, kiddies. it is a small one. and, unlike the majority of my poems, has no nudity or sexy bits. nevertheless, enjoy.
the skeletons of poems
crumble in my hands
i wipe their moth wing dust
from fingers stiff from long disuse
i wipe them clean on the backs of strangers’ couches
undersides of office chairs
and hope that noone sees