This Is Spring

You look out the window and see snow so wow
you shout

He looks back at you with crystalline salt crusted
glasses

And you love him drunken sloppy with morning
sorrow

Unwillingly dripping along the lines like old
Winter losses

What are we doing you ask him directly with
bluster

His face puffing and piling into banks and fences
he answers

Missing a shadow pass over the last of my relative
chances

You turn from the glass aching without any doubt
now


-

Every Day

What do you do? You write poetry every day anyway.

Don't feel bad about it. No one ever has to see any of it

despite their greedy mind's innuendos and the ghosts

this is all yours and every word is how you want it stop-

ing in any way it pleases you to say it doesn't go like

wearing a uniform and having to appease an authority

even if you submit which you do all day anyway bowing

to this god of order and that god of despair and anger

vowing to break words like yours apart before they join

you make them into verses and put them into your

order because here where you are creating is your poem

coming out of the chaos of morning just to say hello

I brought you this spray of words from the garden and in

a week they will all be forgotten and how many left are

your days going to gather a gift like this of your life?

-