Soon, you hope— emergence of spring's
first blooms. Not having to put on
a coat just to take out the trash. Thermostats
no longer clicking on and off. Green
restored bit by bit above drab avenues:
merciful masking of where branches
were pruned and threaded with power
lines. How to revive the stem bent
at the nape, desultory in its old brown
wrapper? You want to slip your arms
into sleeves of seagreen foam, your feet
into a basin pearled and cooling
after light rain; your teeth into the tart-sweet
interval of fruit on the way to ripening.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
