intervals of spring i
First verse of a poem I wrote earlier this spring.
The air smells like spring again
And I open the windows, let the draft wash over me
I read somewhere that spring is the season of death
And thinking about it, death has always haunted me this time of year.
i.
The wound is fresh this time around, and it’s not a dry chill like I feel death should be
It’s strangely warm, almost comforting?
Life comes with so much stress, such worry
I feel so guilty to say I felt almost a wash of relief.
It’s honey over a gash in my stomach
It smells of mildew, and tastes like fresh green onions
It’s frozen in a trance, in a house that still has dishes to be washed
With chicken thighs defrosting in the fridge.
It’s a chapter of my life that’s complete
Send it off with some knitted socks
Wash it away with a shot of brandy.