spring: a poem about living instead of merely denying death

Our discontent had run off

and these days were an aimless fire.

Memory barely matter(ed). For 

glory now

understood: history was long

dead.

This is the wild,

we howled.

This is the wild,

we denied.

Weary alas, obliged

to learn,

how brief

incidental gestures, driven

by unassuming grace would

move mountains

sooner than all

the marching, shouting, shooting

and following. For this

was spring. And

disbelief the crowning jewel of radiant minds:

a rose-petaled tattoo,

fading

into that supple breast we

call reality.

This is the wild,

we cried.

This is the wild,

we knew.

(photos: Peter Garfield, Mobile homes)