6.
Resurrection
Sometimes April Sundays fall on us softly.
Today the sun shines gentle, weightless,
soothing our exposed skins.
Dogs promenade down sidewalks, pulling
their dazed owners westward, lifting
shiny snouts into a silken breeze.
Leafless trees bustle and gossip, suggesting
soon-to-be leaves, and
flowerbeds glisten with new mud.
On the side of the highway, starlings
rustle in the reeds, flinging
grass seed at the solitary robins.
I can feel the world’s slow
unfolding, its opening out into
a different air,
cracking something small
inside my chest, releasing a warmth
I didn’t know I’d forgotten.
April 6, 2014
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