after e. e. cummings
It is just-spring and
too early to plant the beans,
though our fingers itch
for those wobbling furrows.
It has been winter for a long year.
It is just spring; no other
seasons, no other
angles of the sun,
have ever been but this,
when red clematis leaves spark
and the daffodil bulges in its paste-
green stem.
It is just,
spring,
deserved and due—it
is upright, our spring,
and wise.
We bow our heads before the verdict
and drop
clear
water
tears.
It is spring,
just spring,
as she has always
been: a teenage girl
bursting the reedy
basket of her chest
with all her many plans.
And so, to use them all,
she lives her life again
and yet again. Today,
again, she lives,
turning twenty just a billion
times.
It is spring, and
we are just waiting for proof
that life is yet perpetual.
And—
ah,
here is the robin
(Just)
here, the wren
(Just)
the sharp tongue of the irises
(Just)
the velvet bud
(Just)
Light and Earth
(Just)
It is.
Photo by Suad Kamardeen on Unsplash
