Columns

April’s not the cruelest month 

(like t.s. eliot said) 

not if you live in Berkeley. 

February is. 

That’s when 

the plum trees 

begin to sprout 

pale, delicate, pink buds. 

It’s been a harsh winter 

outdoors 

recording extra-wet- 

and-cold 

temperatures. 

Even the streetpeople 

have stopped blessing me 

when I lower my eyes to 

“Any spare change?” 

They’ve had to  

throw on more rags 

play less music 

huddle more in store fronts 

around Cody’s. 

It’s been a harsh winter 

indoors 

freezing feelings 

to a crusty finish— 

insensate survival. 

Holocausts 

recur daily 

or nightly 

everywhere 

in microcosm 

on TV. 

Emergency rooms 

have no room 

for emergencies. 

Schools  

have no money 

for schooling. 

The United States Government 

has 80 billion for 

a bully war on Iraq. 

“Homeland Security” made a forced entry 

into our homes— 

along with  

Enron & Al Qaeda 

Exxon & Detentions Centers 

Unemployment & Anthrax 

Nasdaq & Baghdad 

Recession & Suicide Bombers 

Deplete Uranium, Scud Missiles & Terror 

What are these things? 

But they come... 

they come... 

anyway! 

pale, delicate, pink buds 

in a daring display 

bare 

vital 

vulnerable naiveté 

that shocks cold resignation 

softens nurtured numbness 

dissolves icicled dreams 

and melts frozen vision 

to a warm, trickling 

thaw. 

Pale, delicate, pink buds 

bare 

vital 

vulnerable 

naiveté 

that hurts 

so bad! 

—Harriet Chamberlain 

›