The Allocation Of Spring

The Dawn abides old June,
She folds her quilts made of noon sunlight
Over the line outside for the wind to make it’s dust
Move out, beaten away from that in which it clings.

And the ghosts whisper to the simple people
Wading around old houses with old ideals with their
Secrets stirring in the cob webbed basements with the mice
Gnawing at your belly…

And The Ides Of March have come and gone.
The streets stained with the dyes from juice made for children not blood…
No bells rang out, just some quiet gasps and tears
From the memory of the weight of you.

June abides the Dawn,
Everyone waits for her to sing but she never does
Her lips are chapped from licking at her crooked teeth
She just keeps trying on her Dead Mother’s clothes
May was always much too small a frame.

And we pray for rain as much as we pray for Spring
The colorful salvation, and the perfect warmth on our shoulders
We throw away, many of the sentimental things we’ve been saving
In Faith of better days as the golden mountains turn into a temporary green.

What have you saved of me?

And the rooms we empty decay as they fill up with musk,
As you get older, the deliveries get slower for the new
Things that turn into a temporary you, and the murals you paint to pass the time,
Well there is always some woman’s mascara smearing onto the canvas...

But you still like them all just fine.

My heart abides the Moon… the starlight in my room
I fold pieces of paper around old scars and listen to people traveling
As I remain barely moving, but I’m still smiling
I’ve waved my hand so many times to say goodbye.

But I’m still here…
Folding Noon-Shine blankets with old June.