I’ve lost my graven image.
Have you seen it?
The tic tac of cold rain on the window
spells out insanity,
a particular kind, the ‘early March
little green shoots pretending it will be all right’ kind,
the ‘birds with overactive imaginations in a party mode
on my roof’ kind, the ‘Lenten drudge of the house’s
peeling paint and where is the money coming from’ kind.
Upstairs, on a shelf with other religious memorabilia,
sits my missal. Paper as thin as new skin,
all those holy words, that Latin.
I might have been a mystic, flailing my arms,
if anyone had listened or propped me up.
Oh, what is spring for if not false hope?