SOME, TOO INDIFFERENT TO SPRING WINDS
(For Mom & Dad. After Emily Dickinson’s “Some, too fragile for winter winds.”)
All things must rise—or die, it seems.
From darkness comes desire.
Or so mad Spring would have us think—
From holding back, comes fire.
But I have not decided yet
Who tells the truer tale.
Perhaps in ice we really live—
When pain’s what we inhale.
For all that Spring’s delirious,
It’s Winter’s craven turns
That brings us to our knees with grief—
Ignites the heart, and burns.