Spring comes without a grudge
against winter. Each casual daffodil
just shows up. Outside our stories.
Once I held my son in my hands.
About the weight of our old cat.
His gaze and mine: peers
at a birth in a hospital.
From the unseen, something
just shows up. An old weight
of feeling unseen? or something
that is light. That is, light.
Fall promises nothing. Coolness.
A hollowing of space into distances.
The blazing amid the conifers fades.
To stand there, clearly visible
as the stories go out of season.
This article appears in January 2015.
