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.
