Spring


Is the coil that sleeps under my mattress,
A tiger gathered tight in mid-air.
Spring lays in patches along this morning road,
Is the frost on the tips of the new daffodils.

Spring is the blood of the lamb that just nuzzled,
just butted the ribs of a child with a bottle.
Spring is the egg and the skunk and the chaos
Is almonds and bunnies and peeps in a basket.

Spring is the news that jumps out of a cake,
Is the payoff that no-one saw coming, saw coming.
Spring is the cleaning the purging the shaking
Of rugs where we’d swept away what we can’t take.

Spring is the hope in a young woman’s  fancy,
The fire in the belly, the cool water rising,
Spring is the leap frog, the frisby, the wild wind,
Spring is the key that we turn to begin.

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