Day 2

Is spring the season of leaving?

The kindest time,

before the blind white heat sets in

to burn our eyes to the sidewalks;

these few months when we believe

in resurrection,

when we have at least the irises,

at least the phoebe’s song?

Your eyes glisten with waves,

your fingers stretch to the sun.

Is there still time?

Has there ever been?

Or is there just an instant,

and the hoping for another?