Saturday, March 19, 2011

poem for a spring walk, in three movements

The warm road beneath my bare
And too-long-still feet,
The sunshine on my back so fresh
I can feel the freckles forming,
The way the trees and sky
Create each other bluer, greener--
And the budding,
Steady like a beating heart--
Tells me
Spring is here to stay.

This is my jungle,
This tangle of trees:
Bare trunks reaching up and up,
Then a billion needles arch their backs in the sun.
This, my jungle, is populated by squirrels who cross the road
To dash into shrubs that bloom the color of lemons.
This jungle, mine to wander and be lost in,
Punctuated with mailboxes, cars, and humanity,
Is mine, and mine, alone.

The only way to find the sky here,
Where houses fend for themselves
In acres of piney wilderness, is to stand,
In the middle
Of the road.
Isn't that about right, though?
We must all face our fear of being hit
To look into the face of God.

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