Spring Is Weeping Tonight
Not summer’s narcissist, calling 
attention to herself with booms 
and flashes, nor winter’s frozen 
fury, piling white on white. A shimmering 
sheen of rain, instead, an incessant 
shower that lulls 
and saddens, like a woman somewhere  
in the world, her face in her hands. 

Always so much to weep for — the friend 
who is dying; the lover who left; 
a river that made the news, 
poisoned forever by something 
leaking; the unnamed 
species extinct this hour.