That spring

I don’t understand
Why we need to fret and freak
When we know it’s about it not
Cubes of potatoes, chunks of jelly
A momentary glory, then fills my belly
Still working on the color of cushions
Fabric for curtains and tonight’s deli
That’s significant
But happens thrice a day and twice a month
And we’re still here to shop
Buy somehow things and make them matter
Some sentiments cling to that kerchief
Some memories brings that wrist watch
Is that worth, is that all
No wonder, we’re still so small
She dies because she wanted to live better
And he lives because he wants to die better
What can furrows hide, what can you seek in it
It’s only a tiny part of the plump
And I’m still working on the color of cushion
That will bring some sun to the head
That will keep some bugs away
Laces that will serve as ropes
Pens that will do more than writing
Anything that can bring that year
Bring that spring and detach some leaves
Off it soul
Rustle once with my hopes of that spring
That year
That room without curtains
That I had once found nearby
Which had no adress


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