I saw the Spring return, when I was dead…
Wordsworth
A fine spring day. The morning shines.
Too much billing and cooing to doubt
the future of pigeons, or humanity,
in this sanctuary from an uneasy world,
even for my unquiet heart. Sap thrives.
Take those two settled by the fountain with a picnic…
as if to rub my nose in it, they stand,
link arms and, glass-to-lip, drink
to each other with their eyes, then
mouth-to-mouth what’s his is hers.
… Russian-style, I think, or Polish. But
seeing they sense my staring sorrow,
I flinch, and look back at my book.