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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.

Posted 03/05/19
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