springtime, new growth will begin
wind chimes ring through the trees
the flowers bloom to feed the bees
go out now, feel the sun on your skin
let the grass rush under your bare feet
listen, hear your pattering heart beat
Spring feels like dying this time.
I usually feel like withering,
but because of the allergies.
People used to be able to laugh
at my sneezes; now they feel like
quick triggers. How do I know which
it is? My phone says it’s a Friday.
The calendar says it’s April.
I know it’s both, but it feels like neither
because spring feels like dying this time.
When I go outside I can relax for a little
in the warmth, but I know it’s a false feeling—
that nature is living. No one I know is really
living, but the mosquitos don’t care.
I go from bed to table to bed again,
wearing the same clothes; it feels maybe
like being mummified. I know I’m in a
tomb, with the same walls haunting me,
and spring feels like dying this time.
Not even the loose sunlight pooling
in from the window can draw me out
from my blanket-cave where the screen
light burns fleeting images into my retinas.
I let myself lie there until the hours fade,
like everything’s just one big dream,
another reality where my body is nothing
but goo. It helps me to forget the truth,
that spring feels like dying this time.
the purple flowers blossom
their petals cover your scars;
radiant in the sunlight
and for a moment,
Springtime is the only thing
that matters at all
what i would tell you about the posies
that gather around
when they overhear my voice
calling out your name,
none would say the same.
caroused near the streams
that few perennials are but discerned;
springtime only passes by,
and then they are gone.
but how are they able to suss as such?
when these rosebuds
only when you are here?
On the side of the path where overhead
treetops meet to tickle
each other, the roots
from two trees are knotted
Meet me by that knot.
Kiss me like you said
sugar cane berry stains
lost friends life's bends
mountain still, in the end
there and back i've seen
we were kids, you were teens
we learned a lot where we've been
one more shot before we go
that sacred breath you always know-
when to call it a day
Our world is not crumbling.
Those are mere numbers,
those are just games.
Listen to the roots warming,
they're humming in the ground.
Watch the crows snapping limbs:
structure for uncertain wings.
Can you smell Spring's fertility
in the changing air?
Originally published at http://DouglasBalmain.com/notebook
Under the pale blue sky
A small bird chirps softly as it watches the world go by.
Soft green grasses wave in the breeze
As the rose's heavy perfume tickles my nose and makes me sneeze.
Your eyes dart toward me, a dashing golden hue
And I stand stalk still to study you.
Long ears flick back and forth, covered in waves of silk
And I can make out a small cotton tail the color of buttermilk.
You glance over your shoulder, wide eyes studying me
before you spring across the meadow, happily free.
Happy Spring! :)