When this poem presented itself upon waking, I had an inkling of where I wanted it to go.  When I began to write it down, it took off in its own direction (those who write or make art of any kind will understand this).  I had to leave the draft and do focused contractual, number and admin real estate work all. day. long.  Now at 7:22 p.m.  I have no energy to fight with it.  It isn’t what I first envisioned.  The good thing is that I can always come back and revise.  For now I will let it rest and see what other impetus comes through for it.

SPRING  (My fingers first wrote “sproing” – this poem definitely has a mind of its own)

Wild blows the wind and the branches
beat castinettes to the crash of thunder
as rain moves from patter to splash to
pour.  Inside I watch and listen to Earth

as she conducts her concert and my spirit
responds to the tug of moon and tide
with an unrestrained reply of its own
my heart feral in its answer.

On nights like this I wonder who am I
if I have ever really known the answer
to that question, or if I am always
masked, costumed.  Tomorrow

Spring, so far banished many miles
South, will send her tendrils up the coast,
things will sprout and green and perhaps
even I will unfurl, turn my face to the sun.