I believe the bird was nesting
above the porch light outside the door.
Early spring sun greets me with it’s unsteady color.
The world has not yet found it’s legs.
It is still waking up, still hungover
on the fact that it was too pompous to die.
The trees pretend they do not know what their buds will open it.
The garden lays there as if it yearns for nothing.
The river is filled at capacity, too busy to hear it’s strength.
The sighing branches still have a creak in their back.
It seems only the robins appear confident.
It is an easy time for hope to die.
Things are warming but nothing is really showing life.
Humans still hide under jackets,
even when the sun is bright. They
have the wild hunger of youth in their mouths,
yet they are still starving themselves of it.
The shortness of days teases itself a bit longer,
but the coldness of winter is still in their bones.
The acts of the world are like lines spoken in a play,
we take notice but until the entirety of it unfolds,
the humans go on unaware of the profundity of what is being spoken.
It is the time of the most suicides.
Something felt but not understood.
It is the time that feels most human,
the experience of something happening
with no awareness or explanation.