Here

Spring is here
and everywhere,
and though an annual visitor,
              her song, this year,
                                  is new.
Here,
                                  surveying the back-
                                          yard assortment
                                                       of all
things abandoned...
here, amidst
the fat, fallen
      fruit

and too many bikes,

where, in
                                      postponement,
                                                     my
                                         pencil scratches
                                                unpolished,
preliminary daily plans,
                I discern
                  an unfamiliar wind.

It seems the
                          typically, perky ruby
                                                      budding
                                                      bush,
cut back
for last season's sterility,
                             is waiting,
             unpersuaded even by the rival,
wailing infant buds, proclaiming their
   arrival by her side.

Perhaps she's watching for a modern miracle
but already, an incense rises from what she knows,
       and I drink, ready for
              the harvest.

              The children's voices carry story
               through the window,
and in
      instants becoming
                      moments becoming
hours,
the
    climax advances
                            steady.

This home is aging, less loudly
                               alongside
her inhabitants, modest,
                 but reminding with
                the steady dripping of the
bathroom sink to which
                            we wake

each

morning,

and here, under sweltering sky,
         where, I've returned to all familiar,
                     I am finding mystery.
                                                There's a
promise spanning beneath
                                      this soil,
and I suspect
                  that all along,
                  the ground has
                                      savored
                                      secrets,
understands what the
     beloved
                   shrub does not and knew
those crimson climbers
                never stood a chance.
   

Poetry Jam
Carry on Tuesday