Poet Frances Donovan writes about the early spring. We are in May now–but this poem is definitely in the spirit of the season.
Some Notes on Boston in Early Spring
Still waters of the pond.
The ice broke. An email about bacteria count.
This morning, wavelets.
Will the swans mate this year?
I want to slide into it, skin to water’s skin.
I want to guide him there, swim the
dark waters with him.
The cold makes you vital.
Zip the tiny jacket, slip into sleet.
For Puritans, dancing is a sin.
Homeland is a beach in Santa Cruz,
three thousand miles away.
This is home.
Snow on tulips.
Curtain of sleet in the streetlamp.
I am alive. Yes. Alive.
At the egg moon. Alive.
– Frances Donovan
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