Wednesday, April 1, 2015


It is not the way the robin with its bright yellow breast
Perches on my mailbox
Like an honored guest
It is not the way the worm with a luxurious stretch
Crawls out from a tuft
Of resurrected grass
It is not the beginnings of tulips
Or the softening of the ground
Or the greening of the path to the river
It is not the way the buds on the trees tease me
With their promise
Of the soon-ness of newness
Rather it is the wind
That blows between the gaps
Of the almost blooming branches
And asks if I will remember
The structure of emptiness,
The shelter of barrenness,
Once spring’s fecundity
Overtakes my senses