bad haiku for the theory of the vernal equinox

it is a kind of
joke, the idea that spring
will emerge from the

tough, hard ground, that the
tyrannical winter will
be driven from the

landscape by the mere
fact of science, a turning
world that for millions

of years has forecast
this sameness, this fate. after
all, arizona

says it's equal, all:
evolution, god, matters
of academic

opinion now.  of
course, of course. this must be what
einstein meant when he

meandered into
relativity.  theory,
right?  one word, taken

righteously out of
context and suddenly the
force which holds humans

to crust holds as much
pull–ha!–as intelligent
falling and along

with humans, not long
ago, the dinosaurs roamed
a landscape that must


have looked a lot like
today's first day of spring: cold,
so perfect for big

reptiles. i had big
plans for spring, a lottery
win among them, more

vodka, perhaps more
hope–an accompaniment
to the bulbs that push

against the falling
in an intelligent way,
but now i wonder:

what's the point? now this
winter is everlasting,
ever present; new

never wondrous place,
a diff'rent kind of climate
change.  sure, the crocus

will try to change a
few minds, but all that glitters
ain't old.  hey hey.  my

my. looks like rocks and
roles are legislated to
die. dark matters, true–

but what is truth? the
old answer, beauty, doesn't
hold when reason is

beholden to all
anthropocentrism that
dances on the head

of a pin.  spring's dance
is curtailed forever now
by a kind of cold

without kindness, chill
that no amount of global
warming can belie.

sure, the crocus–small,
bright against the snow, vernal
persistence, once a

speck of hope, one sign
of the world renewed, but...this
winter is the world.

and the drip drip drip
isn't merely the icemelt
falling from the roof.