The Enemy That Is Spring.

What a oddly wonderful evening.
The heavy winds of winter
subsided tonight.
And in their place,
the cool breath
off the water,
was just enough
to lift
the winter's tattered flag,
that stands watch
over the small post office
two blocks away.

The cool breath
of the impending spring
stretched taut
the fabric remains;
with just enough luff
to create a staccato
crack and snap,
as the flag would rise and fall
with the inhale and exhale
of a breath,
from somewhere
out past the black waters reach.

The cool impending breath of a spring unwanted,
looms heavy.
It's approach is unmistakable,
and unwanted,
by me.

I want the dark cold winter,
to linger
out here on the peninsula.
I have no use
for the colors
of the rebirth.
I am content
and comforted
by the grey, black, and white,
which has enveloped my world
since I was brought here
into exile.

In the parking lot
of the Unitarian Church
across the street
from my home,
a father
and son
fly a kite.
The child is no more than seven.
His lack of age
and experience,
is affirmed
by the unfamiliar way of running,
while trying to set the kite aloft.
The boy is heavy footed,
and his legs seem to want
to run in different directions,
away from him
as he looks with hope to the sky
and the gift of flight.

He runs,
and finds his legs beneath him,
as his father offers words of encouragement
and laughs,
as the kite rises and falls
rises and falls,
as a little boy
runs ovals
around a church parking lot;
as the sun sets
and the cool breath of spring
offers the promise and hope;
and encourages a little boy
to soar...

On the cool breath of spring,
over the grey, black, and white world
that I must call home.

I watched them,
father and son,
as I stood on my porch
inhaling the chemical breath
of nicotine from the paper blast furnace
held between my broken fingers.
I watched them,
until my lungs could not take anymore smoke.
I watched them,
until my eyes became so heavy with thick black tears,
that I imagined
drowning
the peninsula of my exile,
the father and son,
the church parking lot,
the post office,
all of it,
to just below the winter's tattered flag
on the pole.

And when it was all gone,
I would row out
in a leaky wooden boat
across my black flood of tears,
and bring the beaten flag down;
relieve it of its burden
to the wind, and bring it home.
And all that would remain,
would be four feet of rusty pole
and a vista of peaks and valleys
of rooftops;
their lives and real shapes
drowned and concealed
by the thick black water of my tears.

What a oddly wonderful evening.
I was confronted by the realization
that I will never be a father.
This epiphany
this understanding,
was awe inspiring.
And while the cool breath
of the impending spring
spun about me,
enveloped me,
and lifted
little boy spirits aloft..

I found,
a regret so profound,
that I am left questioning
everything that I am.
And the impact of my exile,
has become even more awe inspiring
and real.

God damn me.
I am.
God damned me.
And so I will be.

Spring is coming;
and it holds no promise for me.