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