(
Dry Spring
It’s the brownest Spring I’ve ever seen,
as grass, jaded in all but hue, bends down
in pale pre-drought submission above small green
that tries to poke and thrust as if the ground
held melted snow–it doesn’t–instead, cracks
beneath our weight, a crust of old leaf
and lichen crunching what should ooze tracks.
Still heat so sweet, we try not to believe
in anything but the wondrous good
of being able, in April, to swim
in water that should freeze, at least should
rush; till evening brings warm wind, I turn to him–
“A sirocco?” “No, it’s a zephyr,” he says.
The breeze, re-labeled now, delightful, plays.
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Agh! The above is my 16th draft poem this month. I’ve played with it until it’s too late to go on! Must post or keep making it worse! A sorry sonnet of sorts!
ManicDDaily 
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