In springtime, life is easy.
Never has any man suffered in earnest
Due to March air breathing and spring.
It’s just when where we shop is where we live,
We end up home and barely speaking–
Barely living, is more like it, when it’s us and them and screens.
Convenience is a venom, Venus. It’s a you more bad than good.
And a workplace is a prison, minus fresh air,
And just two weeks off for being good.
It’s where we have to be to not die–
And to die simultaneously:
Happening at the same time, we say,
“There is nothing more brutal than this!”
But that’s not true when it is springtime.
Here’s the trick:
That season is every day, sirs,
And all that’s cold is you.
Few things are truly “dying.”
It’s more like most things “are.”
So why waste time on feeling rotten
While still respiring without thought?
(Especially when it’s springtime)
You should not.
No soul can trap a moment
–Tap your touch screen all you please–
But each nerve remembers versions
Like old books they will reread.
And not a one’s recalled more fondly
Than even the dullest days