after e. e. cummings
It is just-spring andtoo early to plant the beans,though our fingers itchfor those wobbling furrows.
It has been winter for a long year.
It is just spring; no otherseasons, no otherangles of the sun,have ever been but this,
when red clematis leaves sparkand the daffodil bulges in its paste- green stem.
It is just,spring,deserved and due—itis upright, our spring,and wise.
We bow our heads before the verdictand drop clear water tears.
It is spring, just spring,
as she has alwaysbeen: a teenage girlbursting the reedybasket of her chestwith 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 billiontimes.
It is spring, andwe are just waiting for proofthat 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