April is the cruelest month. 
Today, I passed not one 
but two deer slain 
beside the road 
too dulled by hunger to avert
too dull to be alert. 
Or maybe it was the drivers’ 
greed for speed after winter,
rushing to beat the clock
as if time hadn’t been 
called 
on March Madness
too buzzed to hear the buzzer. 
Ka-thunk.
Drive on.

Dull roots stir with spring rain. 
The snow recedes
ebb tide across the field
brown grass turns yellow
iris spears poke murky loam
crocuses, like hatchlings: 
mouths open, hungry
even for pale sun. 
A week from now, amnesia sets in.
We’ll misremember it’s always been green.

mixing/Memory and desire 
for a childhood when 
we played stick ball in the streets
rode bicycles to the library 
without helmets 
or grownups.
Car, car, C – A – R, stick your head in a jelly jar!
Julie, Michael
Irene, Andrew
Hilary, Jessica, Felicia, 
Donny, Stevie, Mark
Roberta, Andy
Kim, William
Michael, David, Jonathan
all on our street. 

Seasonal rituals 
I’ve taken down bird feeders in
deference to bears, dragged
skis to the basement, swept
the garage, hauled
grow lights upstairs. 
Nursing seedlings—
Hog Hearts and Plum Royals—
greedy for August tomatoes while
still diving 
into the freezer 
to thaw 
last year’s sauce. 

Another memory
My mother walked me to school that first day. 
How did she know
other children would 
also be on the march or the
teacher would be there? 

The time from Passover to Passover was so long
I had bigger Mary Janes
a longer spring coat
a new dress.
The rituals vaguely familiar, but 
the mystery’s always the same: 
If there's no blood on our doorpost, how
did the grownups know 
it was time to
retell the story?

Is innocence not
knowing how to tell time? 
Or is maturity knowing the lengthening days bring
humidity and anticipation:
nascent leaves open 
a chartreuse scrim closes
the forest turns
workaday green, until 
blue in August, then
red, orange, yellow 
and brown 
they fall 
the air dries, nights 
crisp and cool.

The earth spins faster as
I wind down
reinvent myself
again.
I see backwards 
and forward: the
blood and mucus of birth, the
papery skin of death, the
effort of living, the
ultimate rest. I want 
to believe I will be
ready, but--
not yet.

Just because 
religions observe the
miracle of spring since
the beginning of time, the
rebirth of the earth is 
no less remarkable for 
repeating itself. 

But be honest:
birth isn’t easy.
Rebirth,
less so.