Spring

I know how it will go,
T.S. Eiliot told me so
 I will wander in The Waste Land
if you remain Prufrock out in the cold.

I should beware the ides of March
lest I find my heart bleeding
on the steps of all we hold dear

My heart is a sheath for your knife.

I will buy myself lilacs
to mourn our passing
and wear them in my hair
through all of April

In the Spring
Peaches will ripen
and fall to the ground
wasted.