spring no. 4

you may be

sitting in the park

ipad perched on your corduroyed knee

fingers pecking glass like mallard's

beak upon adjacent sunlit pond

skimming the brilliant skin of water

you may be writing now

how the willow weaves leaflets

yellow and in flower with the sky

a warm skein of life

coiled over you:

this park in 40 years

the crackle of old bark

the bend of these branches

rent with buds

ah, and spring, yes

how the trees say life still comes in season

all the pressing ache of it

as late last night

your arm numb shoulder down from sleep

waking

to the overwhelming feeling of your own blood

each nerve announcing bloom.