April 7

tulips and phlox
blinded under snow
crust, yellow heads
bent ponderously, purple
buds hidden bewildered
as I am

the fir tree
cautiously waited
to unleaf
but the flowers
rushed into exuberant
blooming; short life
when you're a flower;
less to lose; carpe
etc.

I stood before two picture
windows anthropomorphizing
and theorizing
because the past keeps falling
over me out of season

every year not my year;
death hovers, a winter cloud
near my hopeful body

time to get more seeds (pills);
but they only recycle what
exists; they add nothing

I perceived no spirits
animating this still
mixed scene; surely
spirit of snow
spirit of flower
spoke into it

But I'm butterfly
grown old
netted in material
reality
in unexpected
thoughts that freeze

I looked for the easiest
way out when the mesh
enveloped my wings

and wound up dead again