To love a thing is to know a thing will die.
I know this, yet every March redbuds
shout, Nothing dies! Their pinkish pseudo-lie
jams an acid hope between my ribs
as daffodils burst savagely through soil,
snapping yellow jaws. Titmice return.
We walk, shocked, into a plausible world
of things so ruthlessly alive they burn
our skin. We wonder, are we being mocked?
Is this a joke, this sudden burst of green?
No question’s older or better. Books are packed
with autumn answers, crispy, rotten things,
and Spring keeps roaring back, giving us
the test of joy, the one we never pass.