Spring is Near

Fat Tuesday passed with out a horn,
Or worthless beads being thrown
To drunken tourists by the canal.
He didn’t feel like going to the
Last frenzied grasping for flesh,
Before the shriving leads to spring.
He had been there before and
Knew the routine all too well.
He decided that he would take
A running start into the dessert,
When the dried brittle leaves
Are burnt into a cautionary black
With regrets and talk of the grave.
Once you’ve left you shouldn’t want
To repeat things, in your heart
The sad truth is that you don’t.
But the mind is a garden maze,
Memory an old voodoo curse.

Did you think I would make this easy?
The toll is not that steep to pay
You must simply choose me everyday

Showing a curl invisible when dry,
Wet hair contours the neck and cheeks.
Wanting to be indifferent as those
Eyes are, he continues to try
To know that he does not know the
Pale green shadows lost in time,
From an abandoned, burnt out house
By a parched, flowerless meadow.
In the sea are rocks and reefs
Of memory, longing and illusion.
The emerald screams shrilly:
The past is septic, but still breaths.
Is covered over and wrapped tight
Trying to burst out, boiling, seething.

The birds feed by the statue
Of Saint Francis in the snow.
Darting and dodging around
The metal cage filled with seed,
Not abandoned on a frozen day.