Springtime poem (mine).

It’s springtime,

fling yourself
into the green
time, in the
meantime,
while there’s still
time, it’s clean
time, out with
what we don’t need
time, you know
what I mean:
let’s deem ourselves
better than fine,
let’s drink the last
sip of winter’s
wine.

gossamer dandelion

photo by Misha M. Johnson

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“The Sun Inside” (yesterday’s poem) (mine).

The Sun Inside

Winter’s over, shake me out, wash me deep

for the first & final time, says the cheap

winter coat I bought for its greenness and for the love

of its fur I could see myself nesting inside

for so many months, my face a cold photograph

in a frame of fuzz, and the goat blood

on the pocket came out as if the whole ordeal

was just a bad dream I could return with free

shipping! That hairdresser was right, you know–

after the initial shock of loss, my hair grew back

faster than ever. And here I am with my cowboy boots

and my cowkid plaid & my broken wristwatch

in the first wet warm days of a Spring I thought

would stand me up like a hot bad date, & the ends

of my hair are light not from dye but from the sun inside.

Poem of April 10th (poem of today) (mine).

The Girl Who Was Winter

 

I don’t understand how a house is built, the piece-by-pieceness of it all.

And why is a hamburger called that–it’s made of beef. Around here

people say “hamburg” and bang their boots together before swinging

their feet into the driver’s seat. Around here the streets are named

after families who still live on them. This I understand. And how quick

it takes a ram to mount a doe—I get it now. The world’s laid out

on the ground and everywhere I step, I step on it. I’m naming

each new season: after winter, white spring. Then mud, then spring,

then storage, then sticks, then logs. Then winter in her new fur coat

lasts long enough to answer everything. She’s the sweet caesura–

not the roadside flare lit as a cry for help, but the help itself.

***

 

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photo by Misha