Morning Springs

I am the blue house during the thaw

where all the floors creaked and

everything spoke was hushed,

trees knocked on the windows in whispers

Sad and strange goes the fruit,

blood red overripe on your desk

Caught in the terror of your hand

when I throw without warning,

the palm a monster that

opens without thinking

I am reduced to a strange thing that wants

and waits in half-hearted bloom

in a once copper world, half-awakened and

oxidized to misery,

an act in two parts:

the growing fruit is never picked

then laments into rot over droops

that for a moment bend forward in prayer

to the Marian untouchable Mary

for a somewhat fruitful earth

the branch snapping like a slingshot,

no longer heavy under weight

light on its feet, and flying

through gray rolling fields

like a lightening bolt, asking the children to cheer

standing upright

one bud blooming

and then another