The most labile of seasons,
spring leaps aboard any shift of mood
a desultory drizzle becomes a crashing downpour
a real headbanger
then long hours of steady rain
What does the grass know of spring;
that it has them, or they have it?
Not enough to ask, but enough
to reach up, out and down
for an unexpected surge of sun and water
Spring is what we make of it
a plastic mask of calling out.
If nothing – but we have – we imagine
trees would leaf, birds screech,
peck at our roof and outer walls
Not to ask
is to be found
to be as spring is
an untold anecdote
(A book of my poems, called Paper Birds, is due out next month from Unsolicited Press.