ALMANAC by Brian Simoneau

April sets us on the scent of summer, opens up a trail

but it’s covered in mud. Buds on the branches but also mold

begins to stain the plaster walls. Patter of rainfall lulls me,

pulls me under after a week awake, weightless as I watch

the minutes flicker. We long for what comes next but never learn,

never learn to hold a moment in its wholeness, show our hand

at the table and take what comes, to know it comes regardless

so there’s hardly sense in hoping for an outcome we can live

with—unchecked wealth and recession, infinite stars expanding

to collapse, matter folding inward to absorb all light as

focused mass, a blossom that opened hours before it wilts

under frost, love and its loss. We long for each season as if

its being brings finale. We barter our lions for lambs,

empty limbs for leaves and blooms, but soon discover the pollen

slipped into the package and there’s no way of giving it back.