April

Looking out the window (apparently something poets do much of)

Watching this wind, these tender flowers

that aren’t tender at all, but started over

who knows when beneath us as we tromped and glowered

in our various furies, (getting  smashed, divining fairies),  as snow crashed

against the breathless ground from a car’s hot speed -

toward what was I driven? -

Everything is about to open now;

why not me?

Certainly, I shouldn’t liken myself to anything

less than

the leathery-lipped tulips joyously puckering up from the grass,

or the grass itself, chin-upping in plump clumps,

or the pricking corners of the holly tree -

all glorious and unhidden -

The wind is slapping us all awake into life

And I, too, am red and raw and ready

to be, for it is all, when you think about it, risen.