Almost Spring
Some thought of pulling dandelions,
arranging their lame colour
into a crown of thorns.
Some thought of murder
but quickly decided on a symbolic literature
laden with garrets and wretched kings.
Weaving, at length, inclement weather
and shawls for ladies of the night.
Some decided to stand up as kings
with a broadsword of ambition,
to stand as purists in a field of staggering light.
To do away with the nuisance of decision
and pedestrian emotion.
And on this promise fall.
Some decided simply to plant flowers
to be rendered helpless in another season.
And amidst the sprouting and the pulling
the many days of furrowing delight
there arose a voice,
a favourite topic of conversation.
It is almost spring
and the ploughing goes well.
The seasons wait their turn
and the nightingale warbles
in a well-fasted light.
It is almost spring
and God's creatures have returned to the feast.
So too have the forests and streams
in a rapturous silence, the lamenting
of a long winter's night.
It is hard to understand poetry
when all goes this well.
The heart who kept us alive.
The feet who made haste to flee.
The lungs who screamed on our behalf.
The throat is a sore loser.
The mouth is a tattletale.
The arms drag at the feet
like faith, towards the end of the sermon.
The shadows arrange themselves this way
compelled by the order of the day.
The layman is driven to his task
ordered to sing,
to champion a cause.
Lured like common beast to water
with a lust that is no longer his own.
We come to God this way
with a name for the world.
We are reminded of original sin
how the heart fled the garden,
crawling on its belly.
We call it love, but it is only need.
We call it need, but it is only fear.
We say it is the heart,
but surely it is bad faith.
And the night is no one's special friend
and the stars, far away burning
like a lonely candle,
climb into eternity in spirals of light
towards a simple charity.
It is curious and almost convincing
how we persist.
Shimmying slowly up the sky
like a steadfast love, falling
again and again,
clutching at moon and stars
sprouting parachutes, shaking hands
all the way down.