A winter wren warbles his song beside the spring-
house--- meaning things have decided to open again,
meaning those re-enactments of young and fragile.
The sun is fitful, coming through openings of cloud.
Or there are curtains of fog, heavy in the morning;
milk and salt you can almost taste in the air.
But when white petals cover the trees,
it can also mean grief welling up alongside
the new: sorrow of the unbearable, bringing
you to your knees each time. Melody that starts
and breaks, that calls and calls with the body until
it's bent from hurling itself into the open.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
