Winter’s bony
branch is scratching at the moon again,
and another etches with purpose ancient
glyphs
in frost heavy on the second-story
windowpane,
reminders of inevitable ruin and decay,
of ice cream’s fabled emperor that always carries
the day.
I prefer springtime trees laden with lust and semen-sap
and their unfurling palette of glorious
green.
These beginnings and endings, so
deliberate and lean,
are a mystery to the middle-aged hand that opens
the door
or executes scallions after mopping the
floor,
to the brain enamored of rocking routine.
By necessity, our love affair with the spectrum of now
is an interlude at best, a breaking wave
on the shore.
~William Hammett
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