A curious dichotomy exists.
I wake again, but do I wake for spring
Or is it winter still? And am I full
Of dreams, or am I starving, ravenous?
Have the flowers of spring arrived, tra la,
Or is the salt enervated slush still here
To poison hopes? I wonder if the world
Is wakening or is it sleeping still?
And is it time to make a pilgrimage
Or time to huddle in my den again?
And will I find the man who sells balloons
To children in the park, or will I find
The lilacs breeding death—the perfumed air
Funereal instead of bringing joy?
And is the answer neither either or