This time of year
The sun rising on my walk to work. Skipping through puddles. Me slip-sliding, sometimes tripping. The streets running with water.
The river breaking up, the swans low overhead. The souls. In a hospital room somewhere, someone is dying. Snow storm and robin song. It’s always the same metamorphosis.
I pick my way over the remains: fast food leftovers, lost shoes, gravel caught in temporary glaciers. The horizon each evening expanding with light.
The mirage of an ocean across a farm field melting. A family dressed for church: shiny shoes and Easter hats. The low slung Chevy carving swaths in the mud. The land not accepting this intrusion, has its own map.