I’d like to know the why of spring:
why some puddles freeze on sidewalks overnight
even though the temperature never falls below freezing,
why snow here melts gurgles down gutters and
there gathers over grass in piles of ice.
I’d like to know when frost rises and
how deep it goes and
whether it comes out with a rush or
slowly, inch by inch.
I prefer to ponder spring and to ignore
the why of my aging bones
or worse: the why of us, the corporate us,
retaliating bomb for bomb lobbed at our soldiers, but
daring only diplomatic displeasure at
the dismemberment of Jamal Khashoggi.
On this sun-warmed day,
I watch for cautious green arrows
sent by flowers into another
uncertain March, and try to believe
in the ultimate efficacy of effort
against the bitter winter of our failures.