The first sign of spring is like this should be

new year’s, not the era of the dead, icebox hand

of winter clutching Mother Nature,

 

like the fingers of the pastel, cotton-candy dawn

painting the horizon, like a baby’s bluebell eyes fluttering

open after emerging from the womb, like a first date at a

carnival and the sweet-salty taste of caramel popcorn kisses,

like forgiving, ardor-coated words whispered after a

lover’s quarrel, like the beaming smiles of a white-clad

bride and groom as he lifts the lace veil from her face,

 

like the high chiming of church bells during a wedding and

the somber throbbing of church bells at the funeral after,

 

like gossamer pecks of childhood love deepening into

frantic hands in hair and calloused hands on thighs, like

the mazelike features of an oncologist saying

‘you’re in remission’ and not saying if it will last, like the

chestnut-cherry-midnight-sunshine strands of hair fading

into grayscale and falling like autumn leaves into the grass,

like the wilting petals of a once-vibrant bouquet that has been

left to lay on white marble, like the velvet-soft breeze that

prophesizes thunder that cracks the silence and lightning that

tears the sky, like a cloud of hope but it’s raining anxiety because

 

who knows what will bloom (or live or wilt or die) tomorrow.