Nothing Beige Can Stay

By C.E. Farrell

I do not think that Spring

exists amongst the beige

and grey. 

The bulbs trapped ‘neath

fractal crust as Winter has his

way. 

And though she tries 

– the yellowed sun – 

to freckle and heat our faces: 

each morning, we scrape and

hope-to-see some warmer,

deeper places. 

Yet suddenly I start to shed 

my carapace of downs. 

The willows take this as a sign, 

to sprout their new fashions. 

That first day where my

nose tastes the fresh-scent

of dirt and growth – I think

this must be finally 

the fulfillment of Spring’s oath. 

They struggle to keep a hold 

of woven pastel dreams. 

As soggy snowfalls reign, 

bringing back those beige-grey

themes. 

But the willows and the bulbs

they know – and tell me to

remember –

that this sweet anticipation

is theirs: at least until

September.

Spring’s Oath, digital illustration, boy Roland