The Promise of Spring
Spring came late after fooling the lilacs
into belief in promises. Such shock
from the withered buds lying on the ground,
resentful as the beer cans scattered on our carpet.
Betrayal leads to withholding, this, I understand.
Last May it was open windows and the fragrance
of lilacs and, this, the brutal browning smell
of blasted beginnings.
When I said goodbye, you smashed your fist
through the wall and said this house
is mine. How like you to mark
your possessions. That afternoon, the first tornado
of the season. I stood on the roof
of a friend’s house and cheered its coming.