In Spring, Which Isn’t, Yet


These are the season’s first birds,
small, fragile but resilient,
without which morning could not exist.

These are the earliest blossoms,
swaying in birdsong.

This is the cat, sitting in a window,

And I am the I, recording.

I move about the space like air,
less substantial than air, seeing
and touching what is seen.

I cease recording.
I cease, become.

(NOTE: The fact that we got almost a foot of new snow over the past 24 hours makes this piece total fantasy.)

2 thoughts on “In Spring, Which Isn’t, Yet

  1. That’s a lovely poem, Ron. It reminds me of the times when I am the only one awake in the house in the early morning on a weekend. I always exclaim to myself “look what those sleepy heads are missing out on” as the day unfolds around me.

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