how can spring,
so filled with the songs of birds
many i can't identify
how can spring
be so hard?
inner storms, too
yet are so familiar
is it that joy has disappeared?
it is the muggy, fudzy wet greeness?
is it despair that pushes at my skin until i say
sorting out threads, saving some, giving some up.
and the thursday oriole, first i've ever seen here,
i hope may return.