Paul Hostovsky

Vernal Scrooge

The hounds of spring are on winter’s traces and I hate
a slobbering dog. All this mucus and affection
is making me sick, not to mention the ejaculations
of the junipers, oaks, alders and maples–I can’t
stop sneezing and I’m all congested. The erectile
tail feathers of the wild turkeys–the way the males
display them proudly to the females–seem to leave
the females unimpressed. I, too, am unimpressed
with spring and all it’s fecundity. I miss the white lie
of the noiseless, atoning snow; the brown study
of the bare, ramifying trees; the long, cold, invisible
diapause of the insects. I hate to be a buzzkill but
the bees aren’t disappearing fast enough for me.
All these propagators and multipliers–the springtails
dropping their sperm on the ground and just waiting
for the females to come and pick it up–they can all
go fuck themselves. You can all go fuck yourselves,
you lovers of spring, you gardeners and joggers
and dogwood-huggers. I say there’s too much sex
in the world, too much increase, too much seed
on the wind, too much pollen in the air, and much
too much begetting on the ground. I’m getting too old
for this. I’m staying in and counting the days ’till fall.

 

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