No rose will grow ‘round here tonight,
no,
the clock’s already snuck past midnight and
the mercury’s sunk beneath ten
and headed down below zero as the
clock sneaks past again
and I pour myself one last beer.
Not sure whether March came in like a lion or a lamb, the windows rattled a little a few days ago, but been so out of it I’m not even sure which month to charge it to.
I layered up good, two t-shirts, an old sweatshirt with arms that have seen better days, then the Jets hoodie with the zipper that doesn’t work anymore, the green grease-stained fleece over that, and then the black and gray Nike nylon zip-up someone gave me along the way.
&&&&
When the roses bloom again
beside the river
And the mockingbird has sung his sweet refrain in the days of auld lang syne
Times gone by seem to visit more often in the deep late-night upstate New York cold, breathe it in,
Those sweet refrains ring out on the sort of night no one else seems to want, calling the few who want to hear,
Everyone says they want the heat, without ever really giving the cold a chance.
I walk the streets of my dirty old town, the same streets I toddled down almost a half a century ago, scared witless over how few steps I have left to take, and determined to make as many of them feel as good as the ones I take in the cold tonight,
Breathe it in deep, the cold,
and the roses will bloom again,
no matter how cold it gets and no matter how few steps I have left to walk on these streets,
breathe it in deep, the cold,
at least one more Auld Lang Syne,
at least one more sentimental song,
at least a few more staggered steps down the old concrete paths, under the hidden moonlight,
there’s more to do, more that should be done, and not sure whether I’ll get around to it and
not sure if it matters, anyway.
The roses will bloom again, no matter where I wind up or what I do.
Spring is coming, no matter how cold it gets tonight, spring is coming, no matter what I do, spring is coming, of course it is, and the roses will bloom again.