Reluctant
Spring
by Janet
Buck
Soon enough trees will wear
their glaucous sleeves of jade.
Birds will nest as if
they trust gathered straw.
Spring runs late as if a clock
has dropped a hand.
The sun hangs back as if a god
is holding on to losing light.
Moonbeams with anthelion curves
are not the halos of a dream;
rifles, tanks, and suicides
have dyed too many rivers red.
I trim the crust of winter soil
from whisky barrels full of weeds
and wonder what I'm hunting for.
Cherry blossoms fall in lace
against a busy granite slab.
Uniforms of camouflage --
obtrusive as a dollar bill
or beer cans on a rainbow's trail.
I'm just too old to sit and wait.
Blue jays treat each limb they see
as if it is an olive branch.
Seasons ought to bleach our hates --
undo the ropes and bondages of tyranny.
I'm foaming like a rabid dog
for traces of denim sky.
The Middle East is still a place
without the amber radiance
of which the prophets spoke.
The TV tube, a stun gun
hammering my chest.
Behind a wind of battle cries,
there's no such thing
as unmolested marigolds.
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