Spring sulked this year,
plants wet and swollen shut,
buds reined in
by the season’s late debut,
all drenched by loss.

But life, spirited away in mourning,
cannot remain shut up.

Fingers of grief, deft as hungry lovers,
pry open.
Wet sheets snap in the drying wind.
Trash cans
plundered by dogs
boom across winter worn grass
ironed by sun, spilling
corks, stained red
with last night’s wine,
alive,
sulfurous.

The sharp rains of sorrow cut
through me into places left long
vacant by tears until I,
worn from wearing masks,
in company of shadows,
refuse to bury coals
to keep the blaze
from burning.