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The Spring Burials

Violets growing through the asphalt mean

the usual of spring’s predicament:

how, busy getting born, still wings and green

will falter, twist, misgrow their management

and die. Violets grow on one curled leg,

a slender prop obliviously crushed,

and newborn birds are falling from their eggs,

still feathered wet and hidden in the brush

when you walk by. They die in spite of us;

in shoebox nests and jelly jars supplied

with best intentions. Bring them in the house,

then fuss, arrange things, feed them. Occupy

yourself with worms and eyedroppers, sunlight

and potting earth. You’ll bury them in days,

feel silly in your grief. And still you’ll sit

a moment on the blacktop, study ways

to save an unimportant, pretty weed

or bird. You’re still a fool –a fool to bend

so sentimentally and fool in deed,

assuming you know better. Spring is kind.

from InfantaFind it in the library

Copyright © 1995 Erin Belieu
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.

Published in Erin Belieu Poems

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