Spring’s So Sad, We Want to Know Why
Spring’s so sad, we want to know why–
is it the mist that slips us from our baths
with memory of warmth never to be ours?
Beautiful isn’t enough, she says,
face floating near a simple oval bowl
flowered beyond whatever we can know,
and likely to outstay the ones who do.
Cornered, somehow, by the bowl, we stare
and wonder how complete we can become,
slipped from likeness on a night of spring,
let alone into a pause of stars,
mass and smallness merging everywhere,
leaving us to sulk and sink in self.
Sweet and simple in its lonesome trust,
spring will keep us simple till we pass.