The first crocus arrived days before spring
when that worldly, wobbly thermostat
flips its switch
from snow dust to sixty-six.
They call it el Niño.
I call it el wino.
No one knows why
they’re too intoxicated.
Is it aerosol in the air?
Pesticides on pears?
Toxic waste in waterways?
What can I do if it’s only me?
I reach out into emptiness,
feel an aura of unrest,
hear cries in many tongues,
some worse than others.
And though I’ve crossed the start line,
failed to scale hurdles, between,
it’s not what you think.
I let hope take the relay to the finish line.