Fragile
Fragile
Spring is a blossom crushed
Unbeknownst to you, in your clammy palm.
It’s a season made of glass,
Fragile, disintegrating
Like the April showers filling
Cracks in the pavement.
Spring deludes you
With days of blooms and blue skies
And nights of frog-songs through open windows,
Makes you believe the soft peacefulness
Will last forever,
Drowns you in delicious lies.
Spring is breakable, tarnishes
Easily,
With the flip of a switch,
Of a month, a new page
On the calendar, soon to be filled
With Sharpied plans for summer.
Summer — what a word!
Summer is not breakable,
It is robust, it is healthy.
(The smell of fresh-cut grass
Lingers in the air far longer
Than blossoms ever do.)
Nobody worries about summer, but
Spring, starting with snowball fights in heavy coats,
Ending with the clandestine cold of ice cream after a bike ride,
Is gone before you know it.
Instead of days filled with endless time, lemonade and
Lazy swims,
Spring is full of exams and dances and stress,
And before you know it,
You’re clinging to the last tendrils
Of a fragile blossom
That is only crumbling even more.
The Voice
July 2024
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