Barry Butson
Spring Said Nothing to Me
To hear Spring, you must first hear Winter.
In my illness and despondency, I hear simply
the sheer songs of soprano pain and tenor
fatigue.
Snow melts, sap runs, grass appears, leaves
bud,
then emerge, and flowers break ground and
blossom.
I hear only my heart in its elevated dash
to wear out.
Walk with hands at the ready
to break my fall.
No Winter, no Spring. I am deaf
to the robin’s return, cardinal’s whistle,
blue jay splashing in birdbath.
I cannot hear my neighbor’s daughters
growing lovelier each day.
Those who care and come
speak another language.
Spring says nothing to me,
looks around for someone else
to con.
Page(s) 152
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