Ah yes, I hear that faint voice in the air;
that weak attack on new content's still there.
"I cannot breathe," it says.
"Then die," I say.
"I miss her so," it says. "Ah. Well-a-day."
Pooh pooh. For once in twenty months, lie still.
There is a new broom here. It is my will.
It's me. I'm back. The old ways to resume.
I'll be happy. I'll letch at whom I swoon.
I'll make it on my own. This crate I'll fly
with much more than anxiety put by.
Be kind upon your ghost and go to sleep.
I'll shed a tear for you. She would not weep.
And let's get back to matters of good grace,
to offer to the world a better face.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
