Megan Busbice
THE MELTING OF THE SPRING
After the winds there forms a puddle of pink
blooms by our doorstep, dismal as the act of
waking. When the world is post-severity,
thunderstorm, a flood of yellow ash coats
my fingertips, my lips, my throat. Every
attempted celebration is merely the smoke left
from the sun, while the fire burns in rearview
and all the postal stamps curl off. Dare I write
a sonnet to the universe, or a prayer to the earth?
While the harmonies wither, my words congeal
into costly cheap expertise, and the bees swarm
the upper room, and his coffee drips down the walls.
These mornings lack caution, claim wreckage of birdsong
whittled down to the evolution, where the flowers
bloom like poison and the spring spells apocalypse,
and I rise and blur into being, nebulous as the light.