Allergic Gratitude | Sreedhari Desai

Allergic gratitude

spring rolls in

like it owns the joint,

thick air, soft lights,

birds yelling about it

and me...
I start sneezing.

petals, pollen,
that yellow dust
on every car,
spinning in the breeze
like it’s some kind of blessing,

and my eyes leak
like bad plumbing.

the whole world
sharpens up in color
and I go blurry.

still, I’m doing my damnedest
not to bitch about it.

the trees are dressing up
in new green,
little fists of leaves
punching out of the branches,
buds cracking open,
color everywhere,
shouting down
the leftover gray.

hard to complain
when the planet’s
dragging itself out of bed again.

so I stand there,
tissues piling up
like dirty snowdrifts
around my shoes,
nose raw,
lungs full of burning air,

and I tell myself
this is the price of beauty.

every bloom a loud, sloppy mural
splashed against
a too-blue sky,
and me underneath it,
arms hanging open,
face tipped toward the sun
like I’m daring the universe
to pull something decent for once.

I breathe in...
of course it hurts.
of course it sets me off again.

that’s the tax,
I guess.

spring comes,
takes what it wants
out of your body,
out of your patience,
and in return
it tosses you a stingy handful
of days like this.

and later,
when winter comes back
with its stern cold mouth
and kisses everything stiff and quiet,

I’ll probably miss
even this...
the burning nose,
the wet eyes,
the dirty little hill of tissues
at my feet,

proof that for a minute
the world was waking up
and dragging me with it,
and I wasn't in any shape to argue