Better for Next Year, I Suppose
The salutation of green-cool grass between my toes startled me into spring.
The incandescent perfection of the End of a Thing penetrates my room where the treasure is of the time.
I walked here ceremony-slow across the grass, and here I tremble with things undone.
Never again this odd assembly, the hamburger-patttie box of tacky gold and "Ecce, Omnia Nova Facio."
In assent, a picture I tacked up in September just fell off the wall. It has begun again.
There was a scent of someone through a door as I treaded the hall. Someone I knew long ago. My nose cried familiarity to my brain, but my brain could not cry back a face or a name. And this will be the same.
But I am listening to a song. I have been listening to it all this time. Songs, not scents, sear places and people into my memory, wherein lies my hope for holding.
Now for the last jolt of this small slow race, the end, and the beginning. Sunset and May are almost here.
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