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Posts Tagged ‘spring’

 

 

 

Sometimes in spring

I forget it is ever

not spring, forget

that there will be a time

without hummingbirds

and the raucous call

of the geese. These lilacs

and their purple scent

are forever. Forever

is this deep green field.

I almost resent

the voice that writes this poem,

the part that notices how already

the apples have gone

from ecstatic white bloom

to small hard fruit.

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One Humbling

 

 

in seven days

the radish sprouts

push green through earth—

 

every job on my list today

seems quite easy

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And why not be flagrantly happy,

really. The moon is full and rakish

and spring keeps teasing the morning

into taking off its sweater. By noon,

everyone is blushing. In the garden,

strawberries come up on their own,

their fearless white flowers

pre-wired for sweetness.

Who cares the weeds are already

releasing their onslaught of filigreed seeds.

Inside us, an open invitation to fall in love.

Inside us, the pluck to say yes.

 

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arriving with no armor

with softness

they teach me

another way to meet the cold,

these pussy willows

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Last year’s wild roses

have not yet discovered

it’s spring—the brambles

are barren and barbed.

What else is there but

to trust that the green leaves

and petals will come? What

else but to stand in our

own barrenness and believe?

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How could I know

it’d be a weed

that would save me—

 

one which I’ve

spent hours on my knees

trying to eradicate—

 

didn’t know that

on a day when

I needed to believe in spring,

 

it would appear in the quack grass,

its tiny purple flowers

calling to me

 

as if I were not the woman

who had uprooted them,

calling to me

 

as if I too

have some spring

left in me.

 

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In the bottom of my bottom drawer,

my swimming suit hides beneath t-shirts

and mini skirts, all of them wrinkled.

The bikini top strings are untied—

they snake around the dark space

like the sprouted eyes of potatoes.

All this waiting. Somewhere there is light.

The shape of the suit remembers

what it is like to hold things in

and keep things up. It remembers

the way the ocean waves tugged at its knots,

the gritty insistence of sand.

Outside, it is snowing again—

snow on the buds of the lilac tree,

snow on the first green of parsley.

Inside, there is this woman

who has stuffed things into dark corners.

I have nearly forgotten what it is

to be warm, warm enough

to wear next to nothing, warm enough

not to cover my heart with layer

after heavy layer. I am learning

how what is forgotten doesn’t really

go away. The shape of me

remembers how to pull my arms

through the water, how to tread

to stay on top. Outside, the sound

of the plow scrapes past. I am wondering

what else might be in that bottom drawer.

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