Thursday, March 31, 2016

DRUTHERS

After another
all-
night storm rages,
all of my self-

assurances lie—
like so many

abortive ruddy tree
buds do,

on long and glassy early
spring sidewalks—spilled-

out
in these forlorn
patterns—
completely

shattered—
slashed and bereft
of whatever slender and flimsy

arms they'd erstwhile been clinging
to for support.

And yet, distinctly somehow
spelling-
out

now,
in their new wash of dead

diagrams on
the raw ground,
a message—

it doesn't matter;
we're still

so confident!

that
we'll just be

replaced—
by others.

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