Spring

You are tired
Understandably so
The last glove, so gray that it could be a bloodless hand
resting over a trash bag
A sigh over a treacle mess
A victim of too much colour

It is you bent out of your ways
Your form sacrificed to the elements
you thought to harness

An emptiness that remains silent

To look back is to accept that you failed to put her
into your perspective
to draw frames around her with whichever paint you fancied
Fifty first fancies
A hundred new fallacies

She, of the sunset, the dawn, the moon’s fringe of darkness
She couldn’t fit, she was a flow

Your frame, alone intact
shows you an anger that froze when the brush left
but diffused, it is a wiser you
trapped in its borders
no longer dreaming in color

Spring

Let her go even if she spurts out
in ugly gashes, this November through your trunk
then pull back the skin together
There might be a bit left inside
for a spring years later
That is all you are allowed to keep of her