finally

a sudden, voluptuous arc of color -
lilacs, tulips, rununculas, each bulb awakening again,
the wind slowing down into a breeze,
something warm, fertile in the air
and everything smelling like the green
i remember, the soft, easy embrace of it,
not of airbrush nostalgia but
something finer, more real, alive with new detail.

everywhere i look, something is budding free of itself,
whatever cocooning shell kept it safe, away from the
ravages of an unkind winter, has loosed from its cozy retreat,
become visible again, brighter, braver, unshy at last,
and lifting my own head to see the spectacle of this unfurling,
feeling the air kissing my cheeks,
i realize i, too, am ready for my spring.

not just butter

how could i forget to write if it's
like breathing, like so much love, like something
vast and necessary, how could i forget and yet
i did, spent the week out of my room, wooed by tulips,
by clouds dissipating and the vigorous onset
of spring. even the word "mid-April"
feels as ripe as tangerines, which is enough
to set my pen aside, head to the kitchen
with food in mind, real food, forget the adjectives,
and this morning i piled it on, not just butter,
but the belief that not writing is almost as good
as reverence, as the precision of sun through skylight,
as a light drift of perfume from another woman's shoulder,
which calls for breathing, too.

bloom

early spring, you get it, and still you think
hey, better wait just a little while longer -
no need to show the world what may be my best pink
ever. No, I could use more warmth, a little sun for getting stronger

and then i'll open all my doors, so far and free and wide -
let in the breeze, the deep rich smell of freshened earth,
announce that full self i've been keeping tucked inside,
since anything of embryo needs time before its birth.

such planning, then, the marking of a calendar
to pinpoint the exactness of your timing,
careful steps, alarm clocks calculating the remainder
of the month before you reach your fullest ripening.

the thing is, no one's counting down the days
before you're ripe enough for that spotlight in the room
among the other unfurling, glorious brightnesses.
No one waits for you to bloom -

You just do it, unseen, masked behind the rain
the cold, the flattening wind whose strength you grieve.
You don't wait for a break in the clouds, applause, some plain
morning of forgiving light that offers pure reprieve.

Instead, you fly into the mist, announce your name
into a silent ring of trees, unwrap each precious hour
like the tiny miracle it is. It will never be the same
as this, ever. It is only yours to know, this flower.

listen

i wonder if Lennon thought he was good at music,
if he liked what he wrote, thought he'd earned
those legions of screaming fans, that his words
rightfully cajoled a whole era of fashionable haircuts and spectacles,
if John lay back in his bed at night and thought
"Gosh darnit, I'm happy" and "How fabulous, this fame."
Did he treat himself to new clothes, an extra dessert,
a fun new stereo system that cost a bundle but hey,
people like me and i'm worth it.

i bet he had his bad days, too, the mornings when his mind
drew a solid, turd-like blank, when he felt the most he could get
was a chord or two, not even one line down,
finding himself resorting to childish rhymes,
simple concepts, neat & tidy questions
about the nature of man or war or love.

and then: despair, a loneliness like dry, forgotten highway,
a meal he couldn't taste, a friend that wouldn't comfort,
and how lost his tongue could get for anything,
trying to kiss the words back from Yoko's mouth,
as if she'd stolen them, how he'd squirm and flail
while his hand tried to still itself on her strong, insistent back.
"John?" she'd say, turning over. "You alright?"

on those days, there was nothing to do but
remember to shower, buy groceries,
walk a few blocks with the dog,
put down the pen, the sore neck of the guitar,
the phone, the lists, the questions, the restless philosophizing,
and listen to the righteous babbling of the wind.

goodness

what's better than a girl at the playground, glimpsing
her own feisty greatness? Even gray asphalt
turns into glowing launch pad, the ground under her feet
engrossed, now, into making itself a gesture of invitation,
a place for the girl to begin her mark on the world,
an irrefutable act of grace and occasional giggles.

in a greasy second, she could fall, but doesn't,
refuses to give in to gravity and instead,
grips whatever she can get her hands on.

and even though she doesn't have the words,
she grunts her glee into the air,
ignoring the rules, the grumpy sky,
the gulls with their beaks snapping at nothing,
realizing this is as good
as it ever gets, and nothing can stop me now.

there are words that make me uneasy

Achievement mentality
Blowhard
Cheezits
Chintz
Contact dermatitis
Eat my dust
Exceedingly
Effluence
Familiarize yourself
Fecal matter
Flapjack
Franks & beans
Fugly
Generous portion
Gestate
Get on the same page
Going out of business sale
Gumbo
Half price off all wicker furniture
Humunculus
Jews for Jesus
Juicy Juice
Keebler elves
Kids eat free
Luncheon meat
Macaroni
Money back guarantee
Monkey business
Mortgage broker
Mouthfeel
Mucus membrane
No-calorie
Obstinate
Ocular cavity
Oligarchy
Opera
Placate
Playmate
Penal
Pungent
Smorgasbord
Snack time
Step up to the plate
Subcutaneous
Tax time
Tedious
Thrill-seeker
Ululating
Ukulele
Undies
Veritable
Value-added
Vestigial
Vigorous exercise
Wash 'n go
Wink wink, nudge nudge
Wishful thinking
Yodel
Young 'un
Yes-men
Zealot
Zipper opening
Zygote