To be a bird in spring, a sparrow, dinged and dusty —
color of parched earth — and to lose yourself,
dive into the center of a pear tree burst
into billowy white blooms,
to surround yourself with warm snow, a blizzard
of sun, pollen, all petals and falling
does not explain how to stop waiting, stop wanting
because desire has led you to the wrong porch again
where you stand and draw “why” in the unswept dirt and seeds
with the toe of your boot, foolish girl,
the chill darkness tacky against bare arms; he’s not home.
All lights out inside and lilacs driving you mad
with their old-fashioned pen-notes, promises of May.
That there are things you cannot hide from anymore — loss
and a fierce need to control the car careening down the hill.
But it’s not your show, not your life
to god the human heart into loving you again
Let go, let go, let go! the rhythm to your days.
And on some nights when you are worn down to a sleeve
of spit, and beg the skies, or God, or any compassionate spirit
who will listen, for a simple sign: a rabbit in headlights, or deer,
heat lightning or a sudden burnt out streetlight — and what you’re given
is the watery moon, more blur than rock
and ordinary grass, ordinary stone, ordinary shrubs —
For a fleet instance, you get it: I am still walking in May
and breathing rain! And a white space opens in you —
a fearful maw, but still and giving as an old well.
You quiet. All around, territorial shrills and mating calls —
but you stay hidden in the blossoms
And not even sky can tear you from these hushed eyes.

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