Mad March as Such

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?