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…
Comments