Even as we terminal cases
arrive, we are naively
bedazzled by springs seen to be wet
with eternal hope. This may make our baggage
lighter, but only when hope
stays fresh. After all, nothing
ruins a good time
like soggy baggage, the sodden
mess we make of our
lives, pasted and glued and jerry-rigged, saved
occasionally as we are by discoveries,
the freshets of joy, trickling
nectar to the roots
of despair buried beneath
mounds of soil, detritus,
crawling scavengers
and laughing children
who will play on anything
so long as they and we
remain young enough to play, at all.
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