This spring is dour
it coats the tongue
a Scottish taste

that lingers.

Mist in the morning
too much moisture
swells joints

bleeds into my dreams
leaves me drowning.

You deftly net confusion
it swirls around you:
dust bowl eddies

that stick: congregate
in corners of your mind
where spiders play

at madness.

I stutter in dialect
the words slip like silver

the silver of this full moon
cold, hard, sterile.

Sun speckles river
the cow parsley sways
like wedding lace

a song, a poem, a dream.
The oak tree whispers
to the wind

asks again.

Why this?
Why this?