All those lovely flowers vanishing into the night impose a heavy tax on the pleasure this loveliest of seasons brings. So do the burgeoning weeds, and it won't be long before the pines will be spewing their yellow dust over everything. But I'll sneeze my way through April gladly. The icy nights have gone, and the sultry days are not yet here. I'll sacrifice a few boxes of tissues to Persephone if I must. She is married to Hades after all, and the devil must have his due.
by Adam Zagajewski
In the Romanesque church round stones
that ground so many prayers and generations
kept humble silence and shadows slept in the apse
like bats in winter furs.
We went out. The pale sun shone,
tinny music tinkled softly
from a car, two jays
studied us, humans,
threads of longing dangled in the air.
The present moment is shameless,
Taking its foolish liberties
Beside the wall
Of this tired old shrine,
awaiting the millions of years to come,
future wars, geological eras,
cease-fires, treaties, changes in climate—
this moment—what is it—just
a mosquito, a fly, a speck, a scrap of breath,
entering the timid grass,
inhabiting stems and genes,
the pupils of our eyes.
This moment, mortal as you or I,
was full of boundless, senseless,
silly joy, as if it knew
something we didn't