Soon it will be spring, and the crows will circle back

Around the city, where the pavements are clear of snow

But there’s little time to fix the damaged or unpack

And unpick icy blunders, for they too are heavy and shallow.

Soon it will be spring, and the blossoms will act as a seasonal clock

And the remnants of winter will be confined to a kettle’s hiss —

Warning calls cushioned between a dulled knife block,

A drying rack and the memory of a virgin I’m afraid to miss.

Soon it will be spring, and the earth will soften as the sun hits

Unwashed windshields; and I will breathe for the first time in a year,

My discomfort has shifted from pear seeds, to cherry pits,

To plum stones; overripe fruit having grown out of fear.

Millennial healing begins with a warm pint at a pub, I’ve already had a few

But my mama still thinks I’m made of stars and I desperately want it to be true.