Winter weary, wanting spring to slow down,
I don’t half mind refrigerated blooms,
As if some florist had snuck into town
And wanted no wilting by rain-wet tombs,
No fading of flowers by flag stoned graves.
Who am I kidding? The spring never stays
And there is no cold that completely saves
Yellow daffodils under sky’s many grays.
How can I hope when my hopes always wilt?
The glass is half full, but the half-glass’s spilt.
Rust never sleeps as dream-towers are built.
I stand before God; my achievement is guilt.
God alone lasts; it grows clearer and clearer
As wilting looks back at me from my mirror.