Poetry, Part Forty-three

The seasons of the year have always fascinated me. Even growing up in Southern California, one notes especially the subtle changes. In North Dakota, however, the seasonal alterations were far more dramatic and, except for winter, all too brief.

Spring

A poet crouched at the wreckage of achievement,
taking notes:

At fated aircraft,
whose splinters of flight burn now--
obscuring dignity.
At the demise of kings.

Sighting ironies at excavated stone--
any rock once mislaid upon another
and fallen.
Recalling all armies mislead.

A writer of greetings
for as yet unrevealed celebrations,
unappreciated.

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