It's that time of year again. The endless drifts of snow are slowly melting into sludge. The calendar says it's spring, and yet, Minnesota weather forecasts insist otherwise. Oh well.
Regardless, I thought I would share a poem that I wrote around this time of year in 2011. It could be my single favorite piece of poetry that I have written. (Yet!) Enjoy!
Spring, Or So We Call It
The bare-boned woodlands of frozen wasteland
Glinting, evilly, in the near-darkness
Where drops have dared step, then iced inside
Without the pureness of a fairy-dust white.
Instead, the matted, browning fur of the Earth
Is littered with parting gifts from trees,
Paul Bunyan’s footsteps brimming with sludge
An indecisive slop of a thing.
Ghastly gray heavens show no hint of a smile
While whispers weave cruelly through branches
Tracing bare skin with merciless claws
Herding all beings into traps of despair.
Defying the very name it received so long ago
There is no spring in the trudging step of pedestrians.
There is no spring in the nonexistent growth of dead shrubbery.
There is no spring in this depression of depression.
So yeah. Um, feedback is cooler than a can of pop that has been sitting on the deck for an hour in February. Just saying. :)