A prayer for gray ablutions early made
with soapy green shoots of silky tease,
some too tender for the frozen hardness
that harrows brown in hard cheat spring.
An early spring not messiah called -
born to wash again is born too late,
only when the watch on your wrist
stirs a plot with glowing hands and
henna paint beads with lost magic,
a lingering saint in post damp rinse.
So many ways to be fooled
and mine is so often forecast
in a veil of endless drizzle in
that cool wet fog I must prefer.
Every day I ask the question:
what if everything I believe is wrong
and I am really just an asshole?
A man in a long black coat
told me to chew on thyme,
a sprig will turn to lemon
and leave a nice aftertaste.
For a moment, he was right.