Not just any leaf floating downstream
a slave to the current, shining
like a place that’s never been
until now. If you were snow we’d barely see
the top of spring. No one could ever be you.
That ever present noun. Just the sound
of your voice makes the unexplained palatable,
the imperishable greener still, a bead
lighting an abyss of dreary days.
Even April’s first tantalizing notes
are pale receipts. A song slapping in the mind
like a fish stranded on a beach. And then
there’s those guys, the ones
who were always there seeing you
put your pants on one leg at a time, pick
your nose or trip on a sidewalk crack
helplessly tasting flight like a bird
your arms flung out if only
for a moment letting gravity inform you
with some embarrassingly irretrievable grace
as you fall to earth
through the unresisting air.