Monday, April 11, 2011

Spring, not quite

Sitting here, sipping cocoa
From a cup that says:
'My friends went to VIRGINIA
And all they brought me
Was this lousy MUG'.
Eaves are dripping,
Dog licking
Registers ticking.
Rhythms of my life today.
Clocking time.
Cold, clammy, ugly and dark.
Chilled directly through my heart.

Last night it fogged
So hard, you could have missed
Your own house.
Crept right past before you knew,
Eyes only for the white line.
Swerving sharp around
The first frogs of the year,
Those tiny, sad-looking lumps
Looming up on the road,
Shoulders hunched,
Waiting for the sun.
Fifty deer, wet and hungry,
Ears pricking up out of low, grey clouds,
Spread across
A matted field,
Nibbling like a Serengeti herd.

I just deleted the last three stanzas of
This poem.
All mopey and melancholy and morose.
Feel much better now.
If only this pre-season
Of dank and brown and damp
Could be
Abbreviated so easily.
With my shoulders hunched,
For the sun.
Drip, drip.
Lick, lick.
Tick, tick, ping.

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