‘…That Cruelest Spring’ by Daniel P. Rattelle

And then we remembered that cruelest spring,
when we awoke to find ourselves hollow.
Where once we mocked, “O Death where is thy sting?”
now we lie in the mire and wallow.
In the sting of April’s rain piercing my skin
when we divined that there was no truth.
And spring was drained of its redemption,
dead were the days of our idyllic youth.
these flowers, so lately come into bloom
will surely die by the first of the fall
and I will mock their meaningless doom
then I’ll search the fields and gather them all.
because brief and meaningless though they be
still, they were worth something to me.

Dan Rattelle is a poet living in Western Massachusetts where he is founding a homestead with his wife and kids. He is the poetry editor of Persona, the literary journal of Westfield State University and his work has also been published in Dappled Things.

NOTE TO READERS: If you enjoyed this poem or other content, please consider making a donation to the Society of Classical Poets.

NOTE TO POETS: The Society considers this page, where your poetry resides, to be your residence as well, where you may invite family, friends, and others to visit. Feel free to treat this page as your home and remove anyone here who disrespects you. Simply send an email to mbryant@classicalpoets.org. Put “Remove Comment” in the subject line and list which comments you would like removed. The Society does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments and reserves the right to remove any comments to maintain the decorum of this website and the integrity of the Society. Please see our Comments Policy here.