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,
deserved and due—it
is upright, our spring,
and wise. 

We bow our heads before the verdict
and drop

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

                       It is spring, and
we are just waiting for proof
that life is yet perpetual.


here is the robin
here, the wren
the sharp tongue of the irises
the velvet bud
Light and Earth

It is.

Photo by Suad Kamardeen on Unsplash

M. Christine Benner Dixon

M. Christine Benner Dixon lives, writes, and grows things in Pittsburgh, PA. She is quick to make a pun and slow to cut her grass. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Slice Magazine, Funicular, the Los Angeles Review, The Hopper, Fusion Fragment, Appalachian Review, and elsewhere. Her writing includes a collection of creative writing craft essays, co-authored with Sharon Fagan McDermott, forthcoming from the University of Michigan Press in 2023. Christine is the Adult Program Director for Write Pittsburgh. Find her at