Monday, March 21, 2011

Dear World,

I crack open a few windows
in my dirty, little house,
hear sounds of city living:
birdsong, children calling,
hammering, car engines,
splat of rain on pavement
and roof. Spring.

I am allergic to spring,
so my eyes burn, and I taste
asthma in the back of my throat.
Every spring, my yard foams
and billows with unconquered weeds,
with grass that is bushy in front
and mottled with clover in back.

I'm a bit afraid of spring.
Spring stands for things
I do badly: yard work,
exercise, letting go.
Every day I sow my new self
into my terrible yard
watch to see what will sprout:
dandelion or hyacinth?

Even when I feel stale and stuck,
I believe I am a new thing,
though I wonder
if growth is possible
in stasis.


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