Seasonal Rhetoric
Why should my sleeve be wet with crying
When overhead, winter geese are flying?
How can I feign to lie down in my grave
With the frost reminding me I’m alive?
Where do I take my blackest mood
When ducks cross my path in a helpless brood?
And when is a man allowed time for his pain—
The smell of mayflowers again!
On whom do you pin the guilt
For the way a rainbow is built?
How can I wrestle the nagging “why”
When the mangle of summer distracts the eye?
What sense felling a few for a pyre;
The yews already burn orange like fire.
Who stays convinced of the heart’s desolation
Confronted with all these damned invitations!
Patrick Walsh