Wrist Deep

Missed a day there; but I'll catch up tomorrow.

Spring Song

The trees have not yet bloomed but warmth
has crept beneath our fingers and like the boughs
our limbs have begun to thaw. It is time for picnics again.
The usual niceties, thin sliced cold salami, artisan baguettes,
sparkling wine and orange juice to tickle our mustaches,

chocolate covered fruits, three kinds of hard and soft cheese,
some warm enough to spread like jam, creamy avocado,
chilled strawberry yogurt dipping sauce; everything smooth,
smooth like the insides of elbows; everything sweet,
sweet like suckling the yellow tubers of newborn grass.

We spread our sheets among the resting throngs,
couples sunbathing, children playing with their fathers,
two young boys fiddling with plastic helicopter blades that rise
like sideways neon-colored moons, eclipsing gashes of ground
as they slice through the rising air. A flock of sparrows

rips upward like feathered shrapnel, a few clutching
bits of nesting material in their beaks as boots and shoes
are cast off in lieu of barefooted bliss; clovers worming up
between toes and slow, the dark, heavy veil of world is lifted.
And slipping into easy sleep the fading sounds of the day;

in the distance someone playing bagpipes, someone laughing,
the light crack of a baseball bat from very far away, cheering;
and maybe, underneath, a faint little sound like whispering, like a river,
like water running over everything, scrubbing everything pure,
rubbing all the edges smooth; it could be, maybe, but I’m not sure.