This day of fools
should not be crisp
and frigid
but it is—
the buds, pregnant
with baby leaves,
a big-bang sort of
burst that’s yet to come
but not today.
Today will see the
puddles white to ice, shrouding
these shallow mirrors
of the birds, narcissistic
avians that they are,
knowing we’re enamoured
with their beauty, so much so
we offer up our millet,
peanuts, seeds and berried
fruit,
the wino on the bench
who’s right beside us
in the chill—not even
flung a husk
of week-old crust,
nor a name
within this poem
by sleight of pen,
indebted to the frost
of April morn, an opportune
chance to stagger
past a pothole—
without the grim
and sudden gasp
from his reflection,
there beneath the lamp
of Yahweh’s light,
made the fourth and cruellest
day of His creation,
ever-so-vain and showy,
doing nothing to make it better,
hogging all the sky
before a trillion other stars
take up the night,
their warmth so far away
it can’t be felt, sadistic
like this Jester’s
ruse of pageant,
the shame it will inflict
on us, deceived.
Andreas Gripp
March 12, 2025
William Merritt Chase
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