The suddenness of spring rubs against the skin
static of the expected and long-waited for
everything I touch is charged
grasses rise with hairs, petals wait for
their single soft applause, birds
spark into song, and we’re stunned as if
this imagery were real. Occasional clouds
tattoo the sky’s egg shell ankle. This morning
the blue old letch was only a pale boy,
hands behind his back, titmouse and deer
guessing what he’d scatter – or if. Even now,
an afternoon wiser, he’s not giving it up.
If we have to invent gods,
at least let mine be sly.
The linked review was written by Richard Lopez.