Spring
More in bloom than
fruit blossoms and
willow buds, more
songs than robins
and magpies guarding
young nests, more
sweet scents than sage
on wind or earth
after rain. Invisible,
intangible, indistinct to
anyone but me, this
growing, when I laugh
and my belly reverberates
with extra life or
when I cry as if from
some other source, when
my neck aches to my
temples or my voice is
rasp with unintentional
contempt. When my surface
rounds and releases, my
own spring emerges
and I know now it is not
just sunshine and pretty
things but also storm clouds,
obscurity, and prey.
