> jumping into life.

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April, then.

Is this spring?

It must be -

the willows are budding,

and the itch in my feet

starting up again.


life beats itself

into being. Birds riot

outside my window,

and manzanitas

hang their bells

in the wind.


it snowed yesterday.

(Or was that

the day before?)

Time knows nothing

of our dates

and measures.

The cherry trees,


lost half

their fruit to come.

Some things

are taken from us

before we even know

of them;

Death walks here,

too. Nothing grows

but through the eyesockets

of the past. And everything

is growing.

(It's National Poetry Month, after all.)

What makes a set of words a poem? Is it the spare construction, the evocative phrase, a glimpse rather than the full view? Is it the form, or the act of naming it 'poem'?

I imagine a zen window: small, precisely placed, framing an element in the landscape as a piece of art.

Most days, you pack your words into paragraphs, rather than floating a few onto each line -- and I read poetry in what you (so beautifully) write.

When we spoke,

I forgot to mention
that years later,
I am still in love with you.

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