Poetry from Penelope Doyle Johnson: 'Spring, MacArthur Boulevard, late 1980s'

Spring, MacArthur Boulevard, late 1980s

Encircled thus in
hands of glass,

we watch the wintry promise
pass.

Insular and quiet, we

can, in solitude,
agree

that frigid death in
life,

last December's
amputating knife,

brings want and
longing rushing in

when the sun in high,
but weak and thin.

While most decline
the summer's heat,

I would perform a
glad retreat

to sentimental warmer
times

or sandy, arid
sea-duned climbs,

for just one hour of
August's glory,

but late winter tells
a different story.

Patience virtuous I
possess

and yet, I'd like to
know it less,

for I feel no guilt
when I declare

my deepening lust for
tropic air.

I would regard each single
minute,

if I could just be
somewhere in it.