Two nursery catalogs and a condolence arrive in today’s mail—
a good ratio: two peachy-purple promises of spring
to a single inky rendering of water suggesting eternity.
Why do we assign pleasure to only certain of nature’s forms,
wisteria and windswept stretches of beach? Why do we believe
these things beautiful and value them above others? The gray muzzle
of a day like today, for instance, we just consider gloomy. I understand
why sunbeams perk us up, but rain is necessary, too.
Still, this weather blots out any notion days might be getting longer.
I wrap red fleece around my shoulders and study the catalogs
as if they hold the answer. Before we were conceived we were nothing.
Why be surprised at the bookend?
In Africa, our ancestors have been dead two million years. Imagine
a loss extending so far into the future your bones turn adamantine.
Two million years. And during every one, flowers blossomed, set seed
and continued their lineage.
Spring, promise the catalogs while, leaned against a teacup, the tide
washes in and rasps away the coast.
