Resurrections
Spring can never come
too soon:
grass already fat
and flush with the first crop
of dandelions,
columbines spiking flowers
above a float of green,
peonies unfurling
red feathers
punched up
through last year’s
dry remainders,
iris raising fans
to promise blues
rich as the sky
behind a lattice
of still bare trees,
skirted with brush
in bright leaf.
The air has lost its edge,
touching the world soft
as a hand brushing
the hair back
from a child’s forehead.
I watch a hawk rise
and glide
as the sun on my back
warms and releases me
from the last of winter’s
brittle ice.
Trip
On the road with you
going south so fast
as we move deeper
each mile seems warmer
than the last
the trees unfold their greens
like young girls
shaking out their flounces
before the first dance
their fingers reaching eagerly
to brush against the sky
and wild flowers mass
in drifts
a crowd of shouts
in blue and red
with dame’s rocket
a dainty whisper
lacing the unfinished edge
of each empty field
still waiting for its own
new growth
March
The dregs of winter
and we celebrate
with hyacinths in every room
making us dizzy with
their ripe perfumes
we watch cardinals flare
red in the dark pines
coming in by the dozen
for our oily sun seeds
We too are hungry
tramping out in the mud
to scour for the first
slip of new green
for the willows striking yellow
against the bare blacks
of slower trees
the eager drum
of woodpeckers
announcing return
the leaves thumbing up
through the earth
unfazed by snow
and the icy hiss of sleet
Nothing can stop it now
the season’s turn
rises light
as champagne bubbles
busy as yeast
in a new loaf
clean as a baby
taking its first
astonished breath
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