Deep into April

Easter is three weeks old,
old enough to stand on its legs
and walk the landscape speaking life
into dead grasses, reluctant buds
icy hearts of men who have given up.

Easter is what it does:
renews to left, right, and center.
Its seamless garment passing over,
the grass goes green.

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Dream On

The keen return of taste
the sound ear hearing clearly
the grandchild’s song––

To know spring in the smell
of earth and see the robins
run in a burst of color––

All of it clings burr-like
to the lining of memory.

Almost April

March snow inches in
from the edge of the field
to the warming center
where sun and sod converge
in a soggy melt

as our wooden fingers,
our wooden toes
are warmed from the center
when blood flows out to extremities
trembling, and awaiting relief.