I'm not sure about it, and if it weren't for my National Poetry Writing Month commitment, it is the kind of poem I would usually consider a fragile seedling, which I'd put in the 'nursery' folder to see if it will grow into something I like over time. But as I have made a poem-a-day commitment, in the spirit of being open about what actually comes down the pen, here it is.
Rain pause over, spring resumes
The stick that was white is wet again.
Birch buds bursting
look like a struggle
but damp earth
smells as if it will ease them.
Are the willows sorry for the primroses?
No. Nor are the primroses
as lonely as they seem.
Nothing is forlorn.
This is just how it is now
while the air is still
as thin as birdsong
and the pull of the whale-road north
is strong enough
to wind the wind-skeins up again.
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