An Ode to Goji Pop
Winter has been injudicious in its application of alabaster;
No definition is left between earth and sky.
An endless apocalypse of white on white;
No ocular delight to be taken from the hard black lines of the front street hinterland;
Uniformity pressing its weight against what’s left of the summer soul.
Hard months of cold, dim light, wind, snow, cold, dim light and wind.
Out in the open, air too sharp to enjoy;
Inside has become a fishbowl, which we are forced to endlessly circle.
Hope gutters flame-like, preparing the ghost to be surrendered.
But what is contained in this resplendent, zippered pocket?
An emanation akin to a fanfare;
A phenomenon of festivity in its appearance.
With cautious application of freshly kettled water, winter finds itself cast out!
The world is become an exposition of spring;
A new reality contained in new bone china.
A detonation of honey dew melon;
Marigold filling in as an ersatz sun;
Hibiscus and rose assist one another in revival of a memory of gardens both secret and revealed.
The completeness of the crippling contempt and whiteness of the season is dashed when viewed through rose-coloured tisane.
The cold will break;
The snow will disperse;
The wind will be put to better use bearing ribboned kites aloft.
Spring will come as it always has.