the geese are flying in low over the river
and spring comes on
chatting up finches and bluebirds
all zippety-do-dah and fare-thee-well
on a twenty-seven degree morning
that dials up to fifty on a shiny afternoon.
the spring Maine sun fools the mind into shirtsleeves
willing the body to warm itself
pulling in the wild blue sky
selling it with an easy nod to walkers on the road
gunning it, top down, neck scarf flying ...
the floor heater going full blast
and it is just enough humor to form a staff
to swing against the sea of melancholy
and stiffen the walls of memory—
me here, wrapped in wonder
you there, leaking with uncertainty
