It must be Spring again
Here’s the desk that once served as sofa table,
a receptacle for mail, loose change, keys,
things set down first upon arriving home,
now a desk in front of a bedroom window
looking over a bayou, the same bayou
in all the poems I’ve ever written,
the one that has run the same way
for all the years I have lived here
and for many years before.
The same two trees, oak and cypress,
hug a little closer.
And if I move the screen just a little to the left
I can type while watching the big brown squirrel
sitting on a branch of that same oak
and the new green grass reaching
through leaves left over from winter,
the pink buds on dwarf azaleas
shaking their ruffles in the wind,
and what just last week seemed an eternity
now begins to feel like spring.