If a lifetime were divided into seasons,
this would be the dawn of my springtime.
Bit warmer now, it seems;
Pushing thirty, I never thought I'd
joyously make it here.
Here, that is, pushing thirty.
As though 'pushing thirty'
were a place.
. . . . .
The wasps or
whatever they are
swoop down about me,
red and vibrant,
then fly past.
Two horseflies--
or whatever they are--
engage in a mating dance,
swarming around me as though
unawares that their target niche
is not near a just-showered human,
but on a pile of muck;
And anyway, they are high on love,
and reproduction, and the subsistence
of their species.
That is their excuse for
thinking up is down,
clean dirty.
The sky is bluer than blue, the clouds
as shapely as a pin-up bosom.
. . . . .
It's like the entire universe
is waiting, sometimes:
What will I do next?
Like Oliver says.
Other times, not so much.
And others, the whole ground underneath
trembles with excitement barely
seismically detectable,
but still substantial
to some
very
small thing.
The grass has been mowed and I smell it
and, too, the wild onions that accepted
their now drawn-and-quartered fate
below machinery.
Is that was spring is?
This darkness held up right close to light?
I wonder where the spirits of halved
living things go, trampled upon in an urgency
for new life,
bigger, taller--uncut.
. . . . .
This could be a tale
about loss, or
about choice, but
it isn't.
I just wanted to think
about right now:
How some unseen
grace takes upon itself
to give something not-so-very-new
a chance to start over.
Insert more coins, 1up.
And over and over,
With each swarm,
or mating call,
or friendship newly acquired, or
All the words that escape me still,
in describing how I feel about the sky.
Could you describe it,
And would you,
And how?
How it pushes along with
a quiet grace while we,
clumsily by comparison,
go about our newly birthed
springs,
harsh winters, sweltering summers,
and autumns' change.
. . . . .
I am not in any rush;
and yet, I am:
the paradox warms and excites me
like a sweater or the March sun;
though I wonder
if
I will ever,
outside of this,
be able to explain it.
