The spare days are gone–
redbuds and dogwoods bursting
along the ridges, rash colors splashing
the woods while we wait,
parched and paralyzed by something unseen.
Should we offer coins? Flowers?
It seems only blood will do.
No use denying this Janus-faced spring:
blossom-light veiling fear and loneliness.
Time has slowed and widened,
smoke of our winter fires dissolved
by the sparrows’, the robins’ song.
A chain of notes that will lift us
past the lip of summer
where new moons will greet the night.
Something to wish on, to reach for–
darkness felled by the stardust breathing in us.
Grey Sparrow Journal 