A poem from the Spring 1990 edition of Prism.
Spring's lilacs burst through damp sod-
but my impulsive laughter: backslaps and chuckles,
I can feel the war now finally, it's not buried
beneath my aloof mask of quiet confidence,
it's not submissive to the comfort
of distant observations,
and it's not strong as my silent wall.
My forgetful snow,
once covering my will and passion-
frozen by pinpricks of mirrored needles to a hard ice-
has been exposed to the melting sun.
This disruption is demanding- I can't reach you.
All I feel is the tearing of fabric,
I hesitate most times, when questioned or spoken to-
again feel the pinpricks- again the eyes on my life.
I'm caught inside this egocentric veil,
divided between my weak needs
and sensed expectations-
an isolated child resurfaces.
But the light of longer days has pierced my roots
and uncovered the nagging slaps to the jaw-
the jarring within- the drought that is
a very long winter.