Love Poem

Everywhere I hear the songs of spring: in the trees,
In the boxwoods stirred by a sentimental breeze,
In the ivy where the sparrows nest,
Among the graves where the dead ones rest.
But spring is not my gleeful season;
I'll not be conned by blinkering unreason
Into thinking there's a budding chance
For anything approximating romance.
I would so rather like a turkey trot
Through a woodland full of leaf-litter and rot
And allow the witch hazel its winter revival
Than pretend there's a point to my sex drive's survival.
And if in the future I catch a whiff
Of a lovelorn moan in a jazzman's riff,
I'll not shed a tear for him or for me,
But instead trill my tune of autonomy.