A Poem A Day, Poem #25

the spring can be a sorrowful thing with
the music of the birds dancing in cloud
shadows, the speckled sun receding into
rain and opening yellows again onto
the happier side of the world,

and we are slow to answer this call to
joy, but we are quick with hands and feet
and bedroom silences that equal something
greater than seasons can understand, but
when the blooms awaken and the eyes of the
flowers see us for the first time, then there
is a dancing that remembers all those warmths
that were forgotten while the skin was hiding
beneath the sleep of winter, and our kiss was
the only light we'd seen