False Spring

A poem by Daniel Tobin:

This morning in surprising light

last fall’s fisted cluster of leaves

appeared earth’s new growth, delicate

as baby’s breath, the blaze of lace

on a wedding gown’s frilly cuff,

as if bare limbs could change to sleeves

that waver in the wind’s chill scarf,

the eye, unseasonable, gleans

as wish—rose blossoms from gun-scopes,

a world more real in sibilance

than scorn—but mindful of a stain

like the mote at the root of a glance:

this sky’s gray, unbroken stone,

the burden of tomorrow’s snow.

There are many things going on in this poem; I’m not sure what they all are yet, but I know they’re there. “Rose blossoms from gun-scopes” reminds me both of Banksy and of this monument in Managua of old guns used in the revolution, all melted down and made into a kind of blob/wall. There’s a melted tank there, too.

But moments are fleeting (or is that redundant?), and we always have something to do tomorrow.

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2 thoughts on “False Spring

  1. There is so much going on here. I am reminded of that famous image from Kent state of the student putting daisies into rifles. There is that same deadly ernestness against the threat of gray.

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