coward’s spring, i’ve taken to calling it. five years ago i bathed my corner in yellow, but only now does the irony clang. the color no one knows whether to laud or malign. once the upturned belly of the defeated, once a lion’s wind-snarled ruff. and i both, neither, wayward ram. careening into walls just to revel in the breach. floundering amidst rubble in the face of truths trammeled by self-preservation’s brick and mortar. head swung low to charge. hung low to ache. blindered, either way.