SPRING                                     

 

Deep snow

The trees heavy

Peeks of sky through the overhead

Whites, blues and a little green

As I shift back and forth

Rapidly

Like an old radio station

Picking up two signals

She is here

In and out of focus

Just like that old radio

No words

Never any words

The snow on the ground is pock marked

From the white bombs falling from the trees

Muddy circles on a blanket of white

March

A time of transition

I am settling now

Soothed

By a low deep solo piano

At one with the snow and the sky

Almost alone

I feel her behind me

I tilt my head back

Watching the clouds

Quietly I lay back

Sinking

Settling

Into this time of transition