I wake up in spring,
but it’s almost still winter.
Winter keeps shoving
itself forward into spring
but the week promises heat
and that should pop it, that
should make it final —
the passage will be complete
and we won’t have to breathe
apprehension anymore.

I wake up in spring,
but it’s almost still winter.
No tree has burst open;
there is still redness alone
on the branches, still only
a mild chorus from the morning
branches; look out the window and still
winter’s trash still sweeps along
every sidewalk, every driveway;
the road still bears its own debris.

I wake up in spring,
but it’s almost still winter.
Tell me that, like I am, you are with
this idea of spring, of rebirth,
of coming to terms with its
demands, its itchiness for fullness.
Tell me, tell me for real —
will you walk out and, shoulders settled,
still look for things to blossom?
Do you think this will change?

Tell me — tell the truth —
did your President see
the sun rise?

““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““`
onward,
T