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Diatribe Written in Early Spring

The ground is crisp with deadened scrub,

It has no rain to cure, how parched;

The winter held back snowy drub,

Away the frost has quickly marched.

The gutters clogged with dusty runnels,

The buried bulbs are so drink-less.

As shrews and voles dart through dark tunnels;

What man has made himself this mess

Each spring’s arrival seems so soon,

Its glowing aura does confound:

Like sun eclipsed by brazen moon,

Compelled to make up for lost ground.

We feel it in the close-aired morn,

So cool at dawn but fool at work;

Mistake not ardor for hot scorn,

Oh how these swings in mood do irk!

Tis hard to wallow in this fever,

Not from love yet tests like hunger;

As unpredictable as the weather

Should lightning pass without its thunder.

Denial is a useless force -

So strongly held without the proof

Of that which keeps us to our course

What man has made bereft of truth…

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