Evening Poem, March 9, 2015


Home at five and now there is an hour of sunlight left for me

I rush to my room, pull the lighter shirt and jacket from the bottom of the drawer,

Pump the tires to 90PSI and I am out the door and sailing down the hill

Like I was twelve years old

I see remnants of last week’s snowstorm

Dirty white piles, pocked with cinders

bearing still the marks of the plowblade

But in the lawns here and there, it is unmistakable

The jonquils are up and one day away from blooming

Inspired, I push all the harder down the streets and to the far edge of town

And smile at how easy it is on a bicycle to avoid all the new potholes

I breathe in deeply, exhale deeply

I’ll be tired tonight in a new, old way

And I will rest relaxed, not clinching coat or blanket.

The doors and windows will be open soon

And we’ll smell the grass again.

copyright 2015

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