Gentle rains coat the roads, drop their sheen
curtain on the world, making the plunge
into early spring palatable, subtle.
I can’t keep up with us.
The wildly silent turns of events,
gnarls in fresh bark. Slick
in the fickle sunlight, the tree is new again.
Dizzy season of wanting.
And the first flowers gone before
we had a chance to speak their names.
I’m trying to avoid you by writing
about weather, but these images –
these birds and trees – keep slipping up.
We know the difference.
In the softness right around the eye,
the light touch. Who can even see
winter stumble into spring?
Who would notice?
My composure giving way
to stirring rains, how you undo
me with your being, the moment
you call every flower forth again.