A poem I wrote about social introversion, and the way it’s often parallel with the seasons.
Party of the Year
Pushed me through the door,
After a long winter, praying for warmth.
Cold drinks and the sweeping of wind
For a while made me linger,
But the fermented scent of strangers
Or friends (I didn’t know which)
Was the spring air that called from the booming forest.
I took off my jacket.
Flowers bloomed in my brain; I tried not to
Glance at those wilting by the window,
Or was it the couple glancing from the armchair?
These people are the sun, I thought. I danced in their rays.
Sweat came in bursts, but I wiped it back
Like a horse’s tail expelling a fly.
The buzzing boys filled the room in a moment,
And I was surrounded.
The nectar was taken and the bees rejoiced.
People arrived with the wind in their voices,
And I willed the storm to stop. It did not.
“I’m ruining it,” I grimaced; I knew it was true.
Blame it on me and none of it on you.
For I brought the bees in, but no one heard the buzzing
And next to these people, I feel their wind pick up.
Spilt drinks, a light shower turning to hail.
Snide looks, the thunder that sends me home.
Sorry voices, the quiet chirp of birds emerging from the night.
“We didn’t know you felt that way.”
What use is that anyway?