this could be the last spring, he said
with a wary look in the over-keen eyes
that peered out from beneath his ball cap brim
as he told me a tale of horrors in motion
that i knew had not, yet, come to fruition
let’s hope things will get better, i said
though his muttered departure declared
they wouldn’t
later i wondered what it is like to live
without hope
in constant terror of the earth giving way
the mountains crumbling into the heart of the sea
and i remembered how his alyssum rained
its delicate purple petals on my steel countertop
what is it like to live as if Beauty is only transient
and not transcendent?