Mourning song

This new season holds promise when it comes to love
a 10 billion pixel panorama is set
before my eyes, my ears, before my skin and you.
Budding green shoots, look at the way they are going.
They can’t be stopped while overhead the clouds roam like
giants, like ceiling ghosts. While under the earth a
stirring. A bridge made of flimsy rotting wood, fat
with decay yielding. And you think that you struck gold
and so, here we are. All there is left is too watch.

A golden shovel to Sylvia Plath’s Morning Song.

The joining

I like all things vernal,
lime-green, new

unfurling like a trill
from the throat of a nightingale.

I feel like the apple of the eye
of the world, and still these words

are an approximation while my identity
is being reshuffled, Inanna to Ishtar,

syncretisation. The withered grass
feeds the young. I was never

the shining torchbearer of a precocious generation,
my winter self, longing for band-aids and lollipops,

the simple solutions to young hurts.
While a dirty neon bruise cruises behind the distant canopy,

even in the lime-green light I am a clowder of cats
in the henhouse with a cudgel.

Didn’t I tell you,
I don’t do subtle in this season.

But hope springs eternal in my breast too.
All vernal things I wish for.