Spring comes early to this street.
The wounded are walking
again and the mockingbirds prepare
to nest. Even the shadow
the afternoon Red-tail becomes when he flies over
is bright-edged and buoyant
while the Inca Doves open all the curtains
that hold time back with
their calls. Everyone has trash
for the dump
stacked like small altars by
the sidewalk, offerings of how much we do not
need: picture frames framing
space, empty television sets, and drawers
containing only memories.
We limp but we’re lucky
with snow in the heartland, wind
given away free of charge
across the open plains,
and frost hanging on by its teeth
to the mountains up north. The roads
here are asphalt, but
the air still belongs to the desert.
