Muffled by a stage
curtain of bare knobbles and muddy foliage plastered on the ground,
Spring begins liminally. It spreads beneath the threshold,
out of sight and out of mind. Whispers rise brittle from chloroplast corpses,
their blood running hard and crisp

until the trumpets blast and the sky erupts into singing!
Interred bulbs, roots, seeds stir like dry bones
to receive breath, sinews, flesh like robes
around rib-like branches, inhaling, heaving upward,
splayed effortlessly into morning.

And I, bungling gardener, brandish my shovel wildly and tip geraniums,
begonias, African daisies, tropical impossibilities
into the promised fertility,
stabbing at roots, anointing with water,
carefully bending my head with the angle of the sun.

O light effulgent! And still
its rays eroticize all of me—
driven, burning veins with a wacky lust for sky.
In Spring I am risen, sublimated high, extracted from the veil.

Just catch me in the air.

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