Spring is here and we’re all going to die

By Jane Rosenberg LaForge

Posted on

In the spring, planting
commences, the roots of
verbs and gerunds
are persuaded to cloak
themselves in new
soils and stretch
into blank territory
without the sun’s
compass; the weeds
that hold as fast as skin
distracting the soft and
hairless on their route;
to thicken and thickening,
rinds and lemons,
the oranges trees
souring at the twigs
without ever flowering:
it is a grievous time for
an old woman and her
obsessions. Some are
born of salt and storms;
others of pressure
and loss beneath
the earth’s crust; most
precious are those guarded
by barnacles adhering to
piers of driftwood. She
loves the garden, the ocean,
the shore, and its harvest
of voices from the grimmest
of wombs; then onto
the press of rice, cotton,
satin pages, where words
slow and become surrounded
by rivalries and phyla
they are soon hoarded into.

Jane Rosenberg LaForge