poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

The Myth of Impermanence

Spring is a small bird half a fist
attacking mirrors of cars in the driveway
pecking and chattering bird insults
smearing them with poop
to blank out its own image
it takes for a seasonal mating rival

Spring is a surprise turning
some say returning of leaf and bud
of longer sunlight, its greater share of something
both light and dark and neither
the first and last desire and desired, end of both
swallowing its own un-seeing
a nest of tiny newborn birds
eyes not yet open, all mouth hunger and pale cry

Spring is alone, a solitary beginning
we would share were there yet sharing
that wrap of summer, a beach towel
of welcome and relief at what has come for us
in our dark glasses and sunscreen
in our immodest taking in and giving out
of this turning, this rounding on
what would have to stay to turn

You laugh you say nonsense
these are things in our hands our eyes
are not mere mind-goblins

A patience turning teaches
closely watched is summer always only summer

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