cusp in poetry

the thing about this time of year
early november when the snows have come
but haven’t stuck around for good thusfar
is those few green things that haven’t wilted yet
that aren’t hanging in and verdant in spite of all
trying to convince themselves that the snowfall
that this bitter cold is all just a passing fluke
that everything will be warm and better soon
the way those plants bleed sweet false hope
I am those plants
those plants are me
I am those plants
I stay green despite myself
I stay green despite knowing what is here
I stay green despite knowing what has passed
I stay green despite knowing what’s ahead and
I look just as ridiculous as that one fern
green above the inch of snow in doing it
but it’s all it knows, it’s all I know
we stay green despite all our good sense
until the sky itself rips it out of us
we hang in there