The maple is taller than yesterday,
peppered with birds and orange bloom – aloof
below an unscarred blue.
But that is the maple, those are the birds,
and that is the sky.
And though I cannot unsee
unfettered Spring, I cannot unsee
suspicion, the revulsion of hands,
breath and similar heats
that strain against our leaning.
I cannot unknow the slow drawn wind
and the shattered hope
clung brief in a tube.
Take to your pens, dear ones,
mark this time – scrawl that once
in a Spring not come, shriveled
and short of breath,
all Springs must take their measure.