It finally snows, five days after
the first day of spring, and we’re like,
where have you been, because by now
we’ve shelved the snow angels.
We were thinking more like cherry blossoms.
The fact is we’ve adjusted our calendars;
seven leap months in nineteen years,
because this is supposed to be spring.
So anyway we sit down together
at a table where everything’s renewal,
renewal, and under the table our boots
slush the floor and leave salt footprints.
Well, we’re used to contradiction;
there’s salt water on the table, too.
We carry our tears with us, in little bowls.
We lug them across national borders
and the calendar. Meanwhile, the snow
follows us just to say, get over yourselves,
we all have our problems.