Pollen Count

Yesterday I posted a sonnet cheering the early arrival of Spring. But I must confess that I hate the Spring, notwithstanding all its potent symbols of new life. Hate it. For me Spring means two very dreadful things: 1) the end of the skiing season; and 2) the beginning of allergies. I don't know how I make it from one glorious Winter to another. It makes me miss living in Quebec, where it was either Winter, or July. But in any case, here's a snarky little sonnet about my greatest biological enemy.

Pollen Count

by Gideon Burton

A froth of pungent pollen floating wet

upon the afternoon swells up its tide

then crashes over us, a sticky sweat

both rough and smooth, it sinks and glides

along the porous tissues of the eyes

until its claws invisible with hate

make clenching holds, they seize with dark surprise

the hottest triggers of our quickest fate.

I wash my hands my throat my face my sight

my mind a haze of mucous pressured fast

against the walls of swelling cells whose blight

of blood makes dying seem a sweet repast

     For I am eaten, chewed with spring’s attack

     and curse the world that frost and snow will lack.


Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - gravitywave