When is Spring coming?
When will it come, when will it come, into the neighborhood, through the gates, over the
fence, through the sliding door, over the Wall, over the light and shining rooks who guard
against it—
When will Spring come, after this, our studiously observed Winter of so many years—
when will it come at last, blasting down my door?
I've got plenty of sins, plenty of reasons, plenty of excuses why it's my fault, Spring
hasn't arrived, like the child thinks that it's at fault that Daddy isn't coming home.
Daddy's coming home, but not yet, Spring is coming, but not yet, and in the interim we
can't even count the days, for this would be too painful. We must instead insist that we
can feel the thaw arriving, or the idea of a thaw, like a blood clot tightening in Joseph
McCarthy's heart, like a glacier dipping, dipping gone—
What does Spring look like?
Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in Los Angeles, even when he doesn't.