Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Friday, January 4, 2019

Sonnet #281

The pomegranate trees believe in spring so much

They burst with any sign of turn in weather
Not me. I know the cold will come to touch, 
another hard wind, another long night, down feathers
piled upon down feathers, a faucet dripping
And in the morning, when the sun wakes up
the warmth will remind us of a dream of spring
But, not yet. Go back to sleep. This is night's cup
to drink away the darkness, and grow no leaves
This is the cynical hour, the misery hour, the late,
late hour, where every gesture of the daylight flees
when damp, wet air coughs storms, wait, and wait

Pomegranate trees, burned again, will never yield
Spring is ever in their branches -- again, they unpeel

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