Here I go, heading into Na Po Ri Mo, writing a poem for every day of the month!
Just Spring, Actually
May I show you how March came in
With lions and lambs, the roiling
Fur and tumble, restless rains, the wind?
How the month shimmed in
The gap between a frozen winter
And the flimsy nets of spring?
In the midst of this, I said the word Slowly.
Only I never meant slowly, I meant
Something like: “I hear a foghorn.”
In the mud, the rain roar, splatter and hush
The roots squeezing through, what I heard
Was gradual, the growing din of enough.
I want to say a word about fathers.
About lovely men who pay
Their daughters’ coffee bills,
Who take the coats, who lift the vases,
Who pull the laundry and tend to the engines.
About them, I know nothing.
But I still dream that I will, oh I will.