Waste


Not even waste
is inviolate.
The day misspent,
the love misplaced,
has inside it
the seed of redemption.
Nothing is exempt
from resurrection.
It is tiresome
how the grass
re-ripens, greening
all along the punched
and mucked horizon
once the bison
have moved on,
leaning into hunger
and hard luck.

  ~Kay Ryan~

Like all of Kay Ryan’s poems, I’ve read those lines 25 times. Each time I want to italicize that part in the middle: It is tiresome / how the grass / re-ripens…

Springtime, man. 🙂