POEM: Spring

We traded a friend for some lambs, this spring,

Their bleats unheard as we sat in a hotel lobby,

Drowned out by the pianist's wrong note.

There it hung, in the air, a soft discord,

Struck as if to announce the sour note which we all felt,

As blossoms went un-regarded.

I remember the joy of swans and curse.

And later words stick in my throat, letters catch in my pen,

A barricade just behind the nib.

Now, when I write of you, it is behind a veil,

Invested with all the clarity of clay,

Beneath which, I am told, there is rest.