Crocus

Spring has given notice.

So, before she screams, “Fuck You!”

This is your final year

to behold her overlooked glory.

Though,

almost all were forgiven

by the grace of the few,

who gave a loving damn,

with better than that typical glance,

At her creativity with blue, and beyond.

But you lay condemned by the overgrowth of INGRATES,

who've no time for Magenta's Perfection,

precisely achieved at Spring's own expense,

for no charge,

and no more, for you.

No robins will showcase their red breasted fervor,

Nor buds revive the comatosely sensed.

Not a warrior crocus shall be glimpsed

strangling winter,

A barely inch purple hope

facing hardships rougher than these have,

The Whimps who pass oblivious to Cures,

Of what trifles their minds with curses,

Near Paralyzed, they might stop,

They might blink,

and then definitely,

Re-sink into the refuse

of what they call... thought.

“Why,” rages Nature, “I,

teach weeds to explode past Dirt!

And they excel with inextinguishable passion.

Screaming together at you,

in time,

All my blooms,

it's,

'Here!'

'Here!'

'Over HERE, you FOOL!'

If we can endure the consistency of Hell

with Unfailing Proof

that YES!

The new comes again at the close of the end,

Then so can YOU.

So can You!”

And you have 365 chances a year.

While she has only One,

to get it right, and she does, every time.

So Spring is done with each of the every,

and as you only know the water's missing,

for REAL

once the well has run away?

Maybe you'll miss her too and pay attention,

next year,

so she might change her mind and forgive the unforgiveable.

Hold your breath,

Wish,

and then,

cry out your yearning,

for the return her Generous and Heavenly Bliss,

Like the crocuses,

break through with their one inch hope,

when just moments before,

they are quite certain,

that this is their 'REAL' also, and thus

this,

Their Final End.






Renee Beggsmith aka Ajali Shabazz