Monday, January 14, 2008

The Spring

and still i smell the spring,
that scent of sunlight particles
and still-cold embryonic buds,
with closed eyes and
expansive nostrils,
smelling like sighing.

it is in the air there, dodging
between the
now-willess leaves, old, their
crackling skin barely concealing
veins,
browned with age like a
photograph or manuscript,
as if coffee-stained themselves,
existing in the space
between snowflakes, lending
understanding
to the chill, reminding us
of the great labour pains
of death;

it sings even now, i will testify,
that reborn breeze:
even (and perhaps especially)
the sledders
move through it,
and their mittens bear witness.

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