April 17
It’s April. It’s snowing —again.
And, again, flowers close.
Snow is a cruel joke.
The world is speechless,
disappointed —
all this unfulfilled desire!
It is April, after all.
It’s not supposed to be like this —
white, cold shock,
purpose driven away —
this peculiar weather,
this unevenness,
this lack of rapture.
It’s our turn,
insist the purple crocuses.
Snow returns, anyway,
any way it can.
Death can happen at any time.
We can only sing our way forward.
The journey is long,
and the length varies
depending on each of us,
and when we get to the end,
tired, forlorn,
we will brighten up,
at last, and open
like spring flowers.
Editor’s Note: Anyone who lives in the USA (particularly in the east) will understand that this poem is a vivid and immediate response to this year’s exceedingly frustrating and late spring season.
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