Refuting the Waste Land

With Apologies to T.S. Eliot

Photo by Zagranyasha on Unsplash

Almost a week into April and so far I’ve avoided its reputed cruelty in my own life, but I see it on my screens. The lilacs in my lair aren’t breeding but are bottled, their dead land a wall plug that disperses their aroma. My life is so convenient.

But still, March does tug at me, pulling me backward, yes, with memory and desire. The roots of the thing I left there were neither deep nor dull, yet they were not allowed to germinate.

Snow may be forgetful, but it never kept me warm. I prefer the tender blades breaking the ground now, though the seeds I planted haven’t yet.

Spring has just begun, Tom. There are better days ahead.