SPRING HURTS

Somewhere around the memory,
digging cheerily with a spade
at crusted arteries,
like fair-eyed babies
banging on a sunken grave.

Young things turning color
again, within themselves,
after being old all winter,
force casual eyes
to cling to their damp ferns,
surprised, wondering
who they are, what they are,
forgetting,
remembering.

Spring hurts . . .
somewhere around the memory.

			Lucille Hamilton