A cruel time: snow
like dogs being whipped,
demons rushing through the whirling wind:
For what do we wait? May a change
of seasons assuage a feeling, negate
the crush and the condemnation of a judgment?
Why is weather such a divination of the future?
In my house
the fruits do not ripen: crisp cold
pears are green leather; those purple seedless grapes,
of such magnificent potential,
are in no rush to develop their sweetness.
Waiting for such perfection we must grow as old as the mountains.
Is it too much to ask: Must even one’s
most harmless illusions be dissipated?