In Spring, Which Isn’t, Yet

sparrow-2

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,
watching.

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.

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