Spring

Beautifully empty,

I turn to the slivers of blue

Cracking open the dark undersides

Of the marching clouds parading lightning bolts

And weaponry across my sky.

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The wind yells and screams,

Slapping across my face a list of wrongs.

Frigid rigidity is inexcusable beneath the warm sun

Of a fresh new season,

The fires of a dry spring.

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I am caught between the eyes of two raptors.

The talons of fear dig deep into my back,

Dotting strong muscles with bloody caves

And weeping pools.

The keys will not hold a tune.

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The sky has fractured.

White and black splinter the war zones.

Spring is violent, turbulent with confused desires.

But I follow the black pebbles pelting my windows

With bitten-back intrigue and a tied-up tongue.

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There is something dancing on the wind.

Something I can feel brush against my skin,

Skate sweetly across my tongue,

Something I cannot understand enough to witness

Or grab in my hand.

_______________________

It coiled tighter throughout the cold

And has let itself unwind, jolt through the atmosphere,

Seize even apathetic hearts with the flame of newness.

There is a freshness to the world

That has slaughtered the stale cold.

_______________________

Silver Serpent Books

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Not much today, just a small poem about spring. I like marking each season at the start, middle, and end. Over the years, when I look back at my work I can distinctly remember the uniqueness of each season and year. It's become something of a tradition.