Then, like every year, comes the light.
Through the fire escape,
past your poor, brave plants, it sneaks into the living room
one inch at a time. It conquers the glass top of your
counterfeit
designer coffee table,
highlights the shoddy edges
twinkles on the particles of dust on that Georgia O’Keeffe book
you didn’t even flip through.
It is a light so perfect we found a way to store it.
It’s daylight saving time; everybody: it’s spring time.
Blooming, sprouting, pollinating,
spring is the most violent of seasons.
Cherry blossoms, scent of magnolia—these are but a disguise,
hot pink, yellow camouflage for an impetuous burst of life.
Like being born, falling in love, spring is explosion, it’s trauma,
petals prying buds open, insects crawling out of eggs,
loud birds chirping their days away
all this life
forcing itself onto every last motionless winter leftover
commanding excitement, demanding action.
Aimless, enormous, forceful
rebellious thoughts, half baked ideas
unnecessary additions
to the maze-like list of lists of to-do lists
in which
you are,
forever stuck.
“Spring is not easy.”
You learnt it at 20.
An elegant doctor taught you, who smiled through her glasses
as she offered you droplets of Xanax
twenty at a time
once every year
a magic potion to make the season turn.
Though as you toss and turn and curl
you still like
that the daffodils laugh
as you wonder if it’s soon to give up tights,
eager to label your discomfort
a wardrobe malfunction
to shed a layer,
and drag your naked thighs
towards the merciful relief of summer’s sweat.
