Oh, to be grieving in spring!

Like a toddler’s tantrum at the circus,

Or a bad mushroom trip at a house party,

I’m out of place—walking among garish daffodils and eager hyacinth.

Surely I belong in a deep, damp cave,
wrapped in a bearskin,
sucking snot and whimpering at my misfortune.

Surely I don’t belong here, in spring,
where birds yell “good morning!” and Ori’s spindly legs finally find fresh air.

“Juxtaposition, you’re cruel!” cries the cavebound woman, wagging her fist,
blinking wildly at the sun.