So the tulip blossoms fall to their death by St. Aloysius
glowing for a moment
before bright mid-April sunshine
makes the slightest hints of green a portal to heaven,
the purple on the floor like Easter mourners
outside the void
of the hollow, blackened-out cathedral.
And spring won't even laugh,
its endless flowing like some rope in children's hands,
turning all that we remembered
leaf by leaf
to something new,
the emptiness of music.
So much that we do, as humans, is indigestable:
our thoughts of predators
are in our water,
our wasted nervous energy
blows through our air,
but somehow, we cannot believe
the earth that always comforts us
cannot release what's stuck.
The fish are coming back
to Antarctica,
the whales are going home because they do not need
to feel our pain any more.
New alphabets are forming,
as always with our hearts to pick out words
from an apple tree that keeps on growing.