This is the Spring ache,
restless tendrils of voiceless words
grown yellow under the rock
resting at the foot of the slope.

The boulder I pushed all winter
like Sisyphus, spending muscle,
exhausted but afraid to rest
and be crushed by the backward
weight of an unchosen burden.

This is the stall between seasons,
the Sun’s invasive realignment
confounding boisterous Moon’s
prominence in earth’s matter.

April argues the tide over walls,
makes my shoulders weak,
my legs too flimsy to exert
brawn for an inert mind, stalled
at the shoots of spindly ideas.