The Snow in March is Tired
Powdered abstractions in an opaque
vanity, sickly snow perspires and gasps,
sinking into sleep.
A lullaby swallowed is wasted under
evening daffodil while
blinking and confused.
The power flashed and
the stove died
and I lost all sense of time, for a while.
I think often of the day in grade
school, perhaps year 5, year 6,
when I was promised that the line
natural processes and metamorphosis
so rudely interrupted, my brain
tried to embrace this warm abstract,
dull grey matter contorted to form
All hands on deck!
Every synapse a wrought iron cannon
gluttonous stuffed muzzle,
cold like satin
My small insignificant hands could
hardly hold the notion in their grasp
I followed lines of sidewalk and
frigid bricks nuzzled,
limbs of grass, streams of asphalt,
blackened glass water,
scent of petrichor prodding,
in pursuit of my eyes ten feet the lead
I went home and tripped over words as
excitement spilled from my lips and
|stained my shirt,
teeth gnashing rabid, foam cherubic wonder,
me, tracing my reflection in my mother’s bright smile.
About the poet:
Brendan Brady is a poet and musician currently residing and studying Jazz in Baltimore, Maryland. He expresses himself through multiple instruments such as drums, piano and guitar, and employs multiple musical idioms, especially jazz, to gig often. Poetry has become an integral part of his living, breathing, and expression. It helps him grasp the liquid reality he faces as a human.