I told you I would find you a spring poem
filling your mind with the smell of daffodils
the worded anticipation of warmer, saturated.

But poems about spring feel tacky tonight
like a valentines day chocolate that melted
in my back pocket where your hand fits

They reverb a softness that
my tired eyes can’t grapple to focus.
I’m trying but spring means that

My year has been swallowed before me.
The only use I see for these budding sakura
are for peppering that grief with scorn.

Perhaps I will sleep it off. But then,
perhaps cynicism in the face of ******
beauty, is my becoming a poet.