Spring Reigns

There’s a horse under the Weeping Cherry. And the Sky is Crying too. I’m sad that I’m happy today. The new greens are sprouting. It’s Spring. The upwelling tears are spouting. It’s Nothing. In the shade garden the hellebores - each a dim-lit, dusty burgundy banker’s lamp - refuse to face the smalling Sun. Twin Bleeding Hearts rise in lone vigor, drizzle-damp. In the next room, of course, the Farmhouse Sink is Dripping. As it ever will. As it ever was. As it ever has. As it ever shall. As I ever will.