silent spring

cold creeps in through the shutters

and under the doors, caressing the floors

i walk upon barefoot, half asleep,

wandering uncertainly while i wonder

when this undecided season

will finally make up her mind

and stop playing cat-and-mouse

with the flowers and the frost.

but i have wondered so many things

that i never earned answers to

because i wouldn’t speak the question

that apathy has grown on me

like a vine on an iron cage

and curiosity is the memory

of a mildly contagious disease.

death hangs ’round the edges

of all this beautiful newness,

reminding me i’m responsible.

how many winter snows have

made me regret the curse i chose?

how many times in the night have

i cried because i feel nothing inside?

yet as i watched him die

i couldn’t even cry —

the world was cold

and i felt so old.

so old.

i plucked my folly like a rose

chose my fate and then i found

it wasn’t happy like i thought

but fraught with guile and dim decay.

you say you love me anyway

despite my dirt and disarray —

beneath the skin that’s stitched to sin

you love the heart that is within.

how can that be? i know you see

all the hidden things i’ve done

and the roads i used to run away

from your lovely burning face.

and grace? you say you’ll wash

my feet, my hands, my head —

i should be washing yours instead.

don’t you see what i’ve become?

the little innocent undone.

how can you warm my hand in yours,

you, with your eyes like open doors,

when i was mocking all the time

you fed me bread and gave me wine?

but now i hear your voice at last

triumphant like a trumpet blast:

“my love, for you through death i passed.”

there isn’t any more to ask.