by Juditha Dowd
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| AI-generated graphic by Shutterstock |
Once again we’ve let ourselves be taken in by spring.
Words we haven’t spoken for months come tumbling
from our mouths. Tulip, soil, survival.
Fools that we are to trust a tease so early in the season,
we need it like we need the cat to see ourselves
in a rosier light—young and more attentive—aspiring
to the better selves we seem to have forgotten.
We need it like we need the moon to make the universe
believable. I’ve been thinking about how hard it is to write
a poem without any mention of spring or moon or hope
so maybe that’s worth a try. But night still comes too early.
I see you’ve already poured the wine, set a glass
beside my chair where a cat sits watching the fire.
If I don’t close these blinds right now, the rising moon
might keep me here, wandering the galaxies.
In case it’s true that hope cannot eternally renew itself
or spring last longer than today, let me let me stay with
what I know tonight, release the cord and step away.
Juditha Dowd’s fifth book of poetry, Audubon’s Sparrow, is a lyric biography in the voice of Lucy Bakewell Audubon (Rose Metal Press). She has contributed poems to Beloit Poetry Journal, Cider Press Review, Kestrel, Poet Lore, Poetry Daily, Presence and elsewhere.