A Poet's Notes on Early Spring

A season as recurring dream

The lump in my throat is our state bird, a cardinal. I don't know what call they make until I open my mouth and all I say is my own name. I dial your number over and over. Everything I want to tell you I tell someone else. Maybe that's a kind of healing, that other people hear about my recurring dreams and my cat and my hospital nights and fluorescent mornings.

When I am home, pinks crawl up the grass by the mailbox, earth a blushing ingenue learning her lines. I get a lot of cards. I keep them all. It has been a long time now, a year. I've always thought of daylight savings as lonely, that long slant of march light the yellow ribbon I tie up in my hair. I consider planting some seeds, decide against it when it starts to rain. Maybe I'll buy myself flowers tomorrow, or maybe I'll figure out what to do with this sudden sort of warmth. Over and over, the world falls open like a library book, spine loosened with love, and I sit and read the story of everything. Everything changes but time. I remember you. Maybe that's as important as love.