Sonnet #165

Every spring, when blooms return, I think

This might be last, perhaps the storm

perhaps a cell, falling star, a dread worm;

car accident three blocks away, sink

the teeth of one car into another's cheek, devour

the passenger, damage the drivers, rushing a light

at a left turn, nothing will ever make it all right

but every spring the flowers swell and pour

And push so hard against the dry and cold

The green leaves grow, the day is finally ours

And in the rush, the wreck, a flash too bold

The sirens come too late, the mourning hours

among the flowers, a man just 24 years old

Every flower smells so sweet, every note sours