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