by Lora Pavlovich
I am almost soft in a hardening world
unknowing, unspeaking
and unvetted — I know not
what they’re thinking,
and my own thoughts are
too often unheard.
Do I listen to the sounds?
when even the weather’s telling me
that I should figure out what I want.
And though the spring blooms
haven’t yet fallen from their trees
I know that the countdown has started
and know that soon the petals
will lie down, surrender to
becoming pink carpets
on the stained sidewalks
and someone will wonder why they
agreed to fall, be cut off
from their tree for good; but I will say
that they knew what they wanted
and they submitted not to the ground
but to their own wills, and are now
softnesses in the hardened dirt.
