Spring Is Undoing the Damage of Haste
There’s no cerulean in this poem. There’s celadon maybe,
but not really, not celadon. It’s just the way spring refuses
to move, its giant glass gears of a machine you didn’t build
and will never understand. It’s standing on your poet barge
on dead water, knowing all the living water moves much
farther down. Now the apartment is quiet, except for
those contentious birds and that non-jet rumble. I’ve swept
the floor. I’ve eaten lunch. The trees in the middle distance
glow from within, their green. The closest tree refuses to budge.
Is anyone else dizzy about the time it takes to live a noticing
life, and how in two generations, no one will know? There’s dark
chocolate with tart cherries. There’s tea. There’s cloud cover rolling
over and back, over and back, like the scrim at some boring opera.
This is my life being lucky. No, really. It is.