Three crows

Three crows

flew by:

black on the

pale blue

sky of dusk.




And I felt

the sweet


the strawberry-breath

of summer.

Spring continues

to bludgeon and


with ferocious

storms and

riots of green

But I felt the


of something

more serene.

The calm of

days stretching

long and lean.

Languid hours.

Spring is sticky,


I long to love it,

but it feels like

a frothy mist

in which

I cannot catch

A foothold;

or perhaps

I still lack the grace

to flow and

know its torrents

when I step

blinking, in disbelief

out of Winter’s


But now,

I feel the spark.

The coursing.

The legs relishing,

lingering light,

speaking hope

blooming and bright.

An ancient


after the pangs

of birth.

Pale sheets.

A ringing glow,

the great

sigh of the Earth.

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