to complain about now?
Will the dead still need the living
like the living
need the dead?
Has the gist of our conviction
has been weighed down
by old inference yet?
By way of answers,
here comes spring again—
all penitent mallards
wing north
for the season
and fingers of rain
massage moss
from dead tree trunks.
Things soften, then streamline;
so certain, they're
redundant.
Life in such times is
tedium refined;
ease
that's insistent;
reiteration
with a difference.
