“The Toll of February”
God Almighty, these hours are beautiful,
With these wet yards almost dutifully
In their prescient display
Of colors bordering on May,
Japanese magnolia petals floating towards broadest day
In the crepuscular fountains of February,
The very air unfair in its devil-may-care denial
Of my other home, on trial
For geographic crimes.
The church bell chimes twelve hours past noon,
And the balloon of its speech
Floats far out of reach
Of Asheville ears.
And the sum of my fears is this:
That time has no use for me.
That my substance is transiency.
And the phrase “my other home”
Takes on a far more plaintive tone
When I hum it to the drone
Of that bell’s toll.
But, God Almighty, these flowers are beautiful.