Spring's Long Gone

A send off to the Spring season. Already missing it.

Photo by Radek Kilijanek on Unsplash

Spring has passed me by the river Styx.
It's an intoxicating kind of wonder.
A bewilderment that bubbles
and festers right at the top
of the inside of your skullcap.
The untouchable buzzing irritant
that refuses to be scratched.
How can I feel left behind
by a season that died 
so quietly, I didn't notice
Summer has filled the throne
with mournful rain burials
dedicated to Spring's life
and mother nature's ear
with ravenous obituaries?
What would be my role
in the funeral service?
The one brooding in silence
over unrequited dreams?
The one crying in grief
over all the time lost
from procrastination
instead of becoming
everything necessary
to match the real
to my perfect ideal?
If time is a flat circle
drawn on white paper
then grief is the shredder
that degrades clean lines
into splotchy black dots.
So I'll brood one day.
I'll grieve another day.
Most days I'll have both.

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