Spring All Too Often
The azaleas fire up, roseate scars hiding old wounds. We're in their territory. It must be like religion, flaring into contrition, submission.
Resurrection, too, I suppose. I think of Coleridge walking downriver to Chesterton, to pray. He might have sleepwalked those college years, as so many of us did—
but midway he joined the army. Fate is also what refuses you, setting a torch to the newly abandoned house. To be ignored by Memory is not the worst
comeuppance. Even the best portrait in the end vanishes into craqueleur. They also serve who only stand and hate, said the poet, more or less, he of the devil's party.
I'll go after the hedges, one of these days.