This isn’t about the season,
if that’s what you’re thinking.
It’s what I can do more easily
these days: spring.
I can become one,
and feel each increment
of joy and sadness
on the spectrum of my coils—
the tight low, the reaching joy,
the altitude of hope!
Just this morning,
another rejection letter:
an impersonal electronic “No”
appearing on my screen.
But now, barely afternoon,
I find myself singing in the car,
plotting my next move—
my next fearful
but inevitable leap.

DeMaris Gaunt

“Still-life with Boots”
Vincent van Gogh, 1886-88

2 thoughts on “Spring”

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