To Brueghel it was spring,
a time when crocus burst through the snow
lambs and calves trot beside proud parents
and farmers plant crops and promises.
It was then that Icarus’s wax wings dissolved
into sticky drops, thick tears slipping first
to signal the rest was soon to follow,
when a young boy crashed into the sea,
that primordial pit that gave breath to life
becoming his silent dark grave for eternity.
Did Icarus know he was going to die?
Did my son know when his plane plummeted?
No plastic wings disintegrated, metal crumpled
and tore up my boy as he smashed into the earth.
It was not spring.
It was fall, with frost and hints of first snows
and it was not time to plant but to harvest
the last dry dregs of remaining corn husks
where the wreckage slammed into that field
lying like a forgotten aluminum suitcase,
contents splayed around for other to take.
But that was no matter, just things
like sunglasses, watch and wax wings.
But then, wings are of no use to the dead.
No, it was not spring
and the sun was not shining.
It was nighttime
and there was no moon.