weak as tepid tea, the sun shines from a cold blue sky
in the newborn Spring. early morning frost rimed each
tenuous stem, rattling dry desiccated, until vapors
rose like wraiths disappearing aspirating vanished
leaving grasses pale bleached, limp and wasted.

fear hangs on my shoulders, atlas at his task,
holding the earth and all her
devotees, on my weakling shoulders, now bent
and ancient, grieving for the world and
its plagued population, struggling for breath
and light in the weak kneed sun on a early spring
afternoon.