Spring Poem

 

 

It’s April again. Which

means I’ve lost interest

 

in months and days and

sons. Which isn’t fair. Sons

 

are born but they are made

men, made tangible

 

by their makers, by their

makings. It isn’t their faults.

 

What is it then that I’ve lost?

My interests, flitting from me

 

in the dark, obnoxious wisps.

Which isn’t fair. I’ve lost

 

interest in days and now the nights

are all flitting wisps, bright

 

as daylight and just as thin, my

interest in them waning like some

 

bored, listless moon. It’s April

again. I want to leave it all.

 

Which isn’t fair.

Neither am I. I abandon

 

my wisps. I leave them

to their mothers.