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Posts Tagged ‘spring’

 

 

 

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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Love Poem

after Octavio Paz

 

 

under the tired veils of leaves,

under the indifferent rocks,

under the brown needles,

that were once evergreen

under the pinecones dropped

like old conversations,

under the broken sticks,

under the matted exhaustion of grass

comes the tender new green of spring clover,

thrusting through all that was frozen.

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clinking my glass

with god—a toast

 

to the little green leaves

beneath the dead brush—

 

neither of us is surprised,

but dang, ain’t it grand

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One Sign

 

 

 

from empty branches

the orange breasted song of the oriole—

a leaf, straining against the bud scales,

this heart still in winter

begins to believe in green

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Inner Spring

 

 

 

Today, the cottonwoods

in the canyon are already

more green, more lush

than the day before—

we, too, are everyday

more ourselves, which

is to say less our story

and more whatever

it is that writes the story.

Of course it is not easy

to become, though

look, we can’t stop

becoming no matter

how hard we try,

It’s so soft, the new green,

though you and I both know

what it takes to push through,

to emerge into the cold.

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A Languaging Between

 

 

 

Spring speaks a language

with only present progressive verbs—

just today as I walked into blue sky

turned blizzard, I attempted translations

into English with words such as flusterizing,

mirthing, tizzying, and unguarding,

but none of these seemed quite right.

As soon as I felt I had touched

something true, the moment

was already changed.

 

In Springese, there’s a word

that means both destroying

and flourishing. And another word

that means both grieving

and rejoicing. I felt my heart

leap up in glad recognition—so familiar

it is with unrepentant paradox

that the clumsy tongue can’t master.

 

They seemed to have a profound conversation,

my heart and spring, that my brain wanted

so much to decode. It could not,

but the snow was heavy and cold and wet

as it fell on my warming cheeks,

my rising chest, the greening grass.

And though it was clearly

inadequate, the brain settled

for this gloss, God, its so good,

so damned good to be alive.

 

 

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But Oh In the Meantime

 

 

 

I don’t remember the name

of the small purple flowers

that rise through the golden dirt.

On this first day of spring

they play hide and I seek

and they slip me a glimpse

of what might come,

like a man who holds a woman’s

gaze for just a moment

(and another moment)

too long.

Oh, the sweet tease of spring,

the keen inexplicable yes

of it, ahh, how sweetly

(how sharply)

it torments me,

though there

is no uncertainty

it will follow through

with its promises,

mmm hmmm,

eventually.

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