spring dusting

so Tomb Sweeping Day in China came and went.

and there was me,
flitting betwixt
gleaned glimmers
of my muse

in the prose throes
of our latest creation.

so it slipped altogether
from the tethers of my minding.

and now all these
questionable,
indigestible,
archly contestable,
persuasively digressive,
obsessively possessive critters
from a spare Dickensian nightmare,

who waited all year
in a virtual vestibule
just for a chance
to adorn a spring clinging,

are ever so miffed at me.

*>sigh<*

such are the spirited exigencies
of the hapless crusty fluff
of restless,
rutless
dust to dust,

frequenting the ineffable margins
of timelessness unplaced,

attempting to tickle ones passing fancy.

*

- Evan Hawthorn, the 6^th of April, 2019