spring in these mountains
is a fibrous season — winter’s
age-hardened fingers gripping the land
like the hand of a dying man.
after every warming day,
while the streams run full
with the blood of the melt, the moon
climbs a constellated sky,
and the cold deep of space
drops again to harden these hills –
how reluctant to open is this
human heart?
how many times must we hear
the quiet voice- we are each of us
crucified, all resurrected
none immune, none denied.
think of the dreams
of those who came before,
the great projects and empires
of the dust we stand upon.
the kingdoms of the ancients
amount to nothing
beside a single open and bleeding
heart – look to your hands
they were built for nails—
look to your heart
it was built for heaven –
this morning there was snow
on the trees again, and only now
do the birds begin to sing,
starting to rise between the branches
drawing back their wings, exposing
their hearts to this bright
and warming day, like dozens
of feathered crosses
ascending
i like it !
I particularly liked “the moon
climbs a constellated sky,” and “we are each of us
crucified, all resurrected
none immune, none denied.”
(Shouldn’t we just move to California and be done with it?)