March 28, 2013

• Poem for March 28

  Out Like a Lamb

  Standing outside in Pittsburgh
  the air is too frigid
  for the first week in spring.
  The wind smells of
  rotting hydrangeas,
  growth stifled by
  the late falling snow,
  their kindness spent
  on a heart that was too small.

  This is a season of death.

  Some springs are infertile
  when the ground is hard and cold,
  the firmament is laid open
  and the distant Sun closes its eye,
  the cracked earth breaks open
  with a cavernous tomb mouth.
  I slug down an ancient cup
  of coal black coffee,
  its warmth used up too quickly
  as I snuff out
  my last organic cigarette.

  • 9:54 am
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