Wake Robin

Wake-Robbin

Next to the back porch
dew and tiny green buds
dapple the gray cherry tree
A squirrel
has already broken
into the bird-feeder
my neighbor hung last week
Dangling it gapes
spilling seeds onto the thawing
ground gluey from decay
And the year’s first flower
a snow-white wake-robin
breaking through
The winter wrens press
the squirrel to move on
The deck in need of sanding
delivers a splinter to my toe
I don’t bleed The wound sealing
behind the sliver having snapped
smoothly away from the deck
I believe this sliver can be removed
without great effort Unlike
pains of a long gray winter
The sliver can wait A large pot
on the railing grows nothing
A pair of garden sheers
stabbed into the frosty soil
reach up like a rusty little sapling
Beyond it a breeze carries
a torn sheet from my legal pad
out past the garden’s walkway
into a black alleyway
shining wet
where climbing
it’s lost in a bitter sun
That light leaves nothing untouched
making the black building
across the river blacker
Thinking too deeply
on the distance between myself
and the next body
I know next to nothing
Just then
the scrap of paper drops out
of the sun and I
crumple it
into a tight ball and leave it
in the neighborhood dumpster
where it won’t ever rise

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