For Outlaw Poet's Weekly Contest; about this first spring without my best friend.
|April sends her sun sublime |
to paint the land in tiny splashes green
while I choose darkened poet’s grotto;
drawn shade and pen inanimate.
I refuse reminders
of impending life renewed;
of resurrection miracle, or hope of your surprise;
a call, a sudden knock…
something so mundane
it cannot belong to the impossible.
I shirk sounds of wheels
spinning, of cyclic seasons’ push
and pull and turn tenacious.
As top becomes bottom,
I am corpse of bones
crushed and swept into the quiet air of equinox.