We Never Reach Spring
The grass masks the sin-black soil
and they stick a flower
deep down and
now and then a seed,
and the children hide
belts beneath the beds
and the men threaten so
often
and everybody pictures the
ease
yet remain
reaching
mutating in and out
of wishes.
grass masks
the sin-black soil and the
grass pushes upward
for much more than
display.
Change is but
a fancy:
we are all stuck
in one inevitable
realism.
Everybody pictures
the ease.
We chase the horizon.
We look for gold at a rainbow’s end.
We count the stars.
We hug the dust.
until there is nothing left
to reach for
but the sure hold
of death.
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