“Come to the street with/Only your sweet fragrance.

Don’t walk into this river/Wearing a robe!”

— Rumi

 

My dreams, the creek

runs through them,

all the weeks

between now

and then;

April woods flood

with September sediment

and feet, in all

their blistered wanderings,

continue.

 

Now look, the street flows

Euclid; yellow corner

where dahlias grow,

cracked concrete marching

uphill; La Loma

blooms round black asphalt

in the distance.

 

In fall, the dirt path

beckoned; winter

wanderings requested

roses, strange

company through winding night.

In March, I stick

to what I know,

counting hawks at the picnic-table park.

 

By spring, I pass

the bursting gardens, gasp

slightly at the wind’s caress,

breath

trickles

through my lungs,

and down the stairs,

where the lights and the gully

are waiting.

 

The years have worn the walkways

smooth as stones.

Let the place

do the same for me.

 

on the phone with someone in Maryland

asking you about

trees in spring.

are there

petals yet?

and the hummingbird feeder —

does it work?

do they come?

 

that bush was meant

to draw the finches.

 

did they come?

 

hello from here,

I’m in the sun, on break

from classes, trying

to knit

our lives

together

by these facts —

blue sky too,

bare branches.

 

asking,

what’s the weather like

this morning?

and the finches?

did they come?

​

 

Spring is barefoot

grass and screech

of jewel-throat wing

and wild nasturtium

spitting greens

and spring is cause enough

for lazy dreams,

and kissing on peninsulas

and salamander ponds.

 

spring is cotton-candy head

and morning truck-beep chorus,

honeysuckle night

and new hope seeping

into just-washed pants.

 

and spring is languid noon

on a grass hill middle

of the city;

there is no

momentum

necessary