April

Greengold trees, leaves budding,
remind you of Eden's first dream
the one of unity, blissful innocence,
the bluest skies touched
with black birds whirling in pairs
tandem dreams of eggs, nest, beak.

This is what it means to heal--
winter's ice has gone, its stinging blade
a memory still fresh but less so. Less so.

The air is not yet touched with heat
the sun still feels far away
the skies do not press down upon our eyes
a flash of negative turning us into
shapes, blurring out
individual features.

For now, it is easy to forget the frenzy
that will follow soon,
the too much of everything--pollen, blind kittens,
bees swarming for new queens.

To lie still, to dream
--of seeds
turning
in the newly warming soil,
to begin to forget the grief of winter.

Unraveling

this word has been in my head all day
and I pull at its ends
the shreddy bits
tie them off until
they find another way to shred.

I can't remember how to get there
and I never learned how to knit.

Red sweaters
fuzzy and a little itchy if the weather is not cold enough.
That's what I would make.