Spring poem II

It doesn’t matter which way you slide the curtains open. One panel is only ever enough material to hide a certain amount of light.


Nothing can keep the stream of morning from entering.  It fills a room of what rested through the night, highlights the blues and greens and golds with a secret that only light knows.


In the woods a broken see-saw still balances across an old tree like two friends that stopped holding hands but stick close together.  A creek there stays just busy enough to pretend it doesn’t know what happens over time, but it does.


It knows every secret that has never been kept and every secret that is ever quiet.  Children have been freed by the water there, to be let loose and wild in a dogwood church. The smallest among these searches for crayfish beneath the rocks.  If not for him,  so much that has happened would not have happened.  He shaped a world with treehouses and sticks and ziplines that cross the lives beneath Spring.


The years that drive the forces forward sleep under the creek’s stones, allow yesterday to become polished and smooth and a mother to gather pebbles for a dream she brings to life.


When the curtains open again in the morning, an ageless child takes his place in a line of eight.  And nothing can keep the light from streaming in.


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