Poem 3

Spring is in her early days
Leaving secret notes in apple tree buds
Waiting for me to unravel her riddle

I was always told she wore only brown
Not a pretty shade, but the musty, rotting carcass of a colour
I have believed that lie for too long

Everything you know about a person can be undone
by looking deep into the rivers of her eyes
until you are uneasy or at rest

I can see where the lie came from
Me, moving so quick that colours blur through car windows
She, thinking I would appreciate subtlety and patience

I walk slow, up along the river valley ledge
Perfect timing, as the sun waves to the moon
And pussy-willows puff their furry chests to catch the final flecks of gold

Branch-tips touch my eyes like Midas and turn my head towards Spring
Just as she reveals herself and hands me a bouquet
In all the healing colours of death's thaw

Silver ice caps float across azure so deep you think of stars
Grass is bleeding out the crimson of a long winter, becoming
Green deep enough to fill a city with regret

I want to stop my wandering
Lean back against this budding tree
Listen for a century