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.