again to write a poem.
I look out the window and there it is.
spring, stark and eager for the sun.
Is this the
stuff of poetry, this dingy
morning light, sun filtered through
a melancholy sky and crisp air.
leafless trees, the birds
sing and seem to know, or perhaps,
they just encourage this new turning.
shaded patches of snow
tucked like small memories beneath
evergreens. Are they poems?
sounds from the street
confuse sonorous birdsong
and spring somehow seems delayed.
a turn as the wheels
of a factitious life crowd out
the subtle signals of the earth.
soft edges flow
into the cold soil and spring mutters
its faltering collection of words.