SPRING THING

Are you sulking, then,
hoar man dressed in grey,
suffused with self-pity,
counting mental calluses
the surreptitious acne of the aged?

Look there:
jasmine cascades of bright yellow tears:
a delusive spring thing
from the warm mellow years

So sad I cannot share the spring
when so many dead brown leaves
rattle in my head
and I feel so old.

So sad that a little while ago
these jasmine blooms were solar flares
and holly berries glowed
and I felt so young

Time, old man, far past time,
to change your dreams for memories,
to know your hopes are hopeless;
to let go, fall free,
lie alone,
and each day die a little:
like a sham spring thing
clinging on.

And it’s oh so very sad, my sweet,
that I cannot share the spring
since spring belongs to you.

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