Not the Same Anymore
So we live in a world of questions.
And wind. The wind, the wind, the restless wind.
The wind does not wonder where it is going.
Meanwhile the garden leaps up through last year’s dross.
Hen and chicks push green through moldering leaves
and the yellow crocus does what it yellowly does—
soft despite chill. Soft though it drives
though winter’s crust. The crocus does not
ask questions. It softly does what it softly does.
Inside me, a fear of what is blossoming.
Inside me, the blossoming anyway.
I have tried to subvert it, uproot it, weed it,
the blossom more open day after day.
I have tried to render it dust.
Still this blossoming, this blooming despite.
And the why of it, I do not understand.
And the how of it hurts and heals.
And the what of it is so beautiful,
and the where is so deep I cannot measure it all.
So I live with the questions and meanwhile
I walk in this wind and try to praise,
to be content with this bouquet of answers,
so beautiful, so fragile.