From A Spring Skeptic

Celery crisp air & the pounding of baseball cleats on the crosswalk--

It’s no small thing, the tectonic shift of spring.

Something cracked, dribbles down the hard edges of brownstones,

and puddles in the streets.

Bike wheels trace ribbons of its remnants, unaware of the gift they leave.

The park is littered with the small fires of first loves.

Blades of grass bend, offering their front row seat to the renewal of all things.

They are just happy to be green again, animated by the sun,

stirred to dance by the wind.

They know this is no time for answers.

Cube-like brushstrokes color in her face,

And to see her laugh is to see God in a dozen shades.

Come tug the edge of the picnic blanket.

Lay here, soften, think of all that has resurrected, just in the last hour.

Who could earn even one wild flower?