It is an illusion that we were ever alive…
Snow becomes sleet which becomes rain
Which becomes the grayness of the gray
Sky blossoming on the bare branches
Of the trees, its sadness too heavy for itself
But foretelling their spring flowering.
Which life in whose life or whose in which
Was a question never considered. I know
What illusion smells like. It smells like
This book whose pages stink of death.
Done differently, death will not be that way,
For unlike life there is no need for it to be.
Snow became sleet which became rain
Which became the gray sky on the trees
Heavily foretelling their spring flowering.
–
Nominated for the National Book Award, the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of 36 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.
© 2024, J.R. Solonche
Halfway Down the Stairs 