A Day Like Any Other
The hills are dressed in olive drab,
bristled by the crowns of trees
that plant their asterisks in the ground.
The milk-mottled clouds, impotent
as the sun, a silver disk,
burnish the rippled sky.
Neither a fly nor hawk draws near.
This is my chance to disappear.
The bush is dripping its melancholy
on the grass. Upstairs, cold tea
waits for me in a cracked ceramic cup
with my name on it.
The letters have faded, the painted
roses have leeched their scarlet inks.
It was a gift.
There is always one last snow to smother
the spring. And here it comes
to cache the woods still awaiting
the grey rains of April that cleave
the early blossoms from the stems.
It is not me, here, grieving sickly
toward the sky. I have buried myself
beneath the dark earth, dun
as a workhouse mule.
It is not Easter here
in the core of this loam
where nothing is nourished
and nothing is reborn.
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