Damned Spring

Chinooks, they say, for the last few days

are blowing out windows, punching at trees,
teasing of spring in the deadlock grim of winter;
melting snow:

powdering breaths of almost-summer,
hale and evocative, driving me mad.
In spring I know I’ve spent another season.
Damned spring.

I’ve never had much use for spring;
don’t like it when it comes around,
when it must come, and brings that sap and syrup;
romance; loss.

But through that languor, and that longing,
and that listless unbelonging,
there moves the blood of earth that seeks the light.

And winds blow all things clean

And that is right.