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.
Sep 2, 2020
Sep 2, 2020 at 8:14 AM UTC
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.
Request permission to use this poem