Spring & Et Cetera

This morning the birds on wires

are writing power ballads.

As they scatter across the blue

each one adds a note

to the symphony of clouds and sky.

*

November’s yellowed lawn

seems warmer in the rising sun

and even a neighbor’s

leftover electric reindeer

are awash in impressionism.

*

I want to immerse life in a new language.

Make weather my personal metaphor.

Write a sonnet about radiance

and dedicate it

to the ghosts of radical prodigals.

*

Sometimes I’m faded and frayed around the edges

like the photo someone broken

still carries in their wallet

but only looks at in bars.

Sometimes I’m just about done.

*

Then spring light strikes against landscape

and a blaze of healing

burns away all the dark ideas.

I close my eyes and count to three,

cross my fingers behind my back.