Spring arrives, jonquils ordinary

as thoughts of sand


The wait begins for youth and inspiration

to hammer again on the wooden shingles

of the temples of old age


We can think of nothing to plant, overlook meadows,

knowing that droughts outlast generations,

their dryness so profound that earth

opens graves for the sky to mock,


live for a morning paper and the evening news,

squander space between with errands and mercenary work,

program computers to print Christmas card labels,

tax returns and shopping lists, chop ingredients

for treasured lunches and dinners


We who once led

walk aimlessly over sidewalks

of the last winter’s snow,

eager for darkness, a first glass of  wine


Spice on our tongues is nil

There is a bounty we cannot grasp,

voices we no longer hear,

vistas viewed only from inside

fogged windows


We feel no urge to dance,

to wave manifestos, spout theories,

no will to resist the somnolent drift

into the longest of seasons