ANOTHER SPRING DAY IN LINDEN

With the grind of lawnmowers in the air,
Yellowjackets hovering for color,
I'm sitting in the sun without a care
While the wind whispers another
Song from memory.

I'm waiting for the hawk, to see
Him glide over and land
On the telephone pole, or that tree's
Dead limb.  I stare at my hands
Like small animals in the zoo.

Spring is here, the birds in twos
And threes, everywhere the singing.
I settle into what's common and used,
And try not to let the ringing
Of time bury my head

In its blind rage.  Instead
I breathe in the green grass,
Look beyond what's dead,
And remember the past
With a sad smile.


SPRING FEVER

It is my 48^th spring
In this country of doom.
The first six I don't recall.
After that, each spring,
All 42 of them, blend together
Into one messy spring with fat robins,
Steady rainfall, the tulips first
To bloom on the north side
Of the house.  The grass sucks
All the green out of the air.
The trees grow light beards
Made of small buds, while birds
Clamor at the feeder for more.
The wind tastes like a cold beer,
Sent over to me from old man winter
Who sits at the bar, winking,
Downing jello-shots like there's
No tomorrow.  And then the world
Crawls out of its hole, squinting, swearing.
Picking up a clump of mud, it marks 48
On my forehead and I stand out here,
Looking up into the heavens, waiting
For the storm to come and
Wash me clean, God willing,
For another year.

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