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.

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