My seasonal affective doesn’t need
A daily planner to mope and snarl,
To remember to forget to take its meds,
To hold on to grudges authored
By amnesia and codeine.  

But sometimes it loses its calendar.
It’s insulted when Spring flings
pastels in windows still reserved
for February’s bruised vistas. Wounds heal, lacerations
scab into ruddy blossoms, florid treetops.  

Spring yanks the yard’s numberless ripened
pull tabs and I mow on command.
My seasonal affective mumbles, “conformist bastard,”
slips into a flannel and squints in sunshine
among potted plants too thirsty to pucker.