For a day or two
a warm green taste escapes the diesel fumes,
the heavy air hangs low &
pulls us close
enough to hear electric whispers on
announce the verdant birth of Spring…
then routine returns to smother it all
becomes just more white noise we all ignore.
Spring soon ends & then, somehow languorous
sullen evening light of summer
begins again another doomed attempt
at bringing colour into every hour
of each dilating day.
Autumn begins: I hear
violins, a sigh that heaves from
as the light takes on a melancholy
tinge: austere admixture
of fading green & deep orange
as the once-whispering wind
devours the trees.
Now snow falls like dove feathers
laying quiet & still until dawn’s frail purity
breaks beneath our feet,
the mixed-up air already containing
greater darkness, low hanging Sun;
the light still bright but bleached out &
clouds lingering white phosphorus,
the winter sky is a war crime above us.
Every year becomes this:
the flower’s imperceptible blooming,
slow to remember & quick to forget
how the season’s elision
fucks with our head(s).