I'm surprised by purple crocuses on the way home
and the farther I look the more they multiply
a kind of secret reunion with family long lost,
relatives whom I welcome in other forms
because it's Spring, and the weather is full
of arrivals: I see you now, Grandfather –
little storm gathering in the distance;
and you, Nëna – a pink magnolia, the one
on the very top of the tree; welcome robin –
my favorite uncle who wouldn't shut up;
here's afternoon, waning slowly, like aunt Pandora
who'd come to visit and wouldn’t leave;
and hello, mother – snail crossing a sidewalk
always there before I take my next step,
but the green grass, that is my father
and on the last day, he'll cover me.
Maybe this is how I'll leave one day –
without announcements, because I'm a quiet breed,
and everyone knows, those who arrive early
are always in a hurry. In fact, I'll leave
so that it seems entirely natural. How do I know?
It's easy to forget that it was winter a week ago
when the whole ground is suddenly overgrown
with green, when sunlight wheezes loudly
over buttercups. Dragonflies
cast their nets over our lives. The birds
have all gone mad again, they will never listen.
I can hear them having dinner
in their house, across the street.
They have company
and have opened their windows wide
like ours. I hear ladles and spoons
banging on the plates and bowls.
Their son is crying. I can barely see them
through the dusk and this old maple tree
that divides us. I want to tell them something.
I want them to turn their heads
to the window and just as they notice the soft
brown silhouette, I want to hear them
say it: it's alright, we already know.
"Spring" first appeared in Imagination and Place Anthology: Weather, March 2012.