Windows open. Snowdrops up. Arms bare. Spring!
She wants her hands in dirt. No armchair spring.
Grandpa remembers Yiddish curses, his
first-grade teacher’s name. Not “car,” “pear,” “spring.”
Some beast chomped my plants to stubs. The neighbors’
garden glutted with buds. I want their spring.
Screens instead of visits. Even in dreams
I’m masked. Another me here/you there spring.
I know your tricks – using beauty to tempt
frozen hearts to open. Don’t you dare, Spring!
Ghost-pallored, maker of ghosts, Chauvin sits
unremorseful in the witness chair. Spring
of justice, season of whites waking up?
Or yet another life-isn’t-fair spring?
Scarves and mittens packed away. Warm air means
less clothing. Women exist. Men stare Spring
of desire wound. Circling hawks. Ducks bob
on the light-kissed river. Jays declare, Spring.
The sky’s ferocious blue. Sun-dappled stone.
Trees tell the myth of rebirth, repair. Spring.