April 19th

Reading Komunyakaa

in the side yard

on a blanket

in spring time

before the world

as we know it began

where now,

out a kitchen window

three robins,

orange as orioles

shuffle & peck

for seed or worm

as in the next room

three boys play

whatever roles

suit the mood:

hero or villain

depending on

each moment’s

instinctual need

just as that after-

noon’s poem

might have been

“songs for my father”

in which fourteen

sections serve

to illuminate a

relationship I

avoided once &

hope with every-

thing to avoid again

on the flip: that

catastrophic love

some fathers give

their sons

& here,

 this reminds that

there is some

 sadness in, even,

spring: sometimes

 a premature

nostalgia: things

change so quickly

it’s as if they are

already gone,

grown,  gifted

away

like those three

birds, now replaced

by a gray sky,

clouded & lined

with the kind of change

that shakes blooms

& scares the fuse

into retreat

in all of this

there is a constant:

(besides anxiety)

her beside me,

though these

between change

the magnetism

& the magnitude

of opportunity:

after all,

 this is still spring,

these our birds,

our boys, the

best defense

we have against

time & forgetfulness

Soon, I will search

the lost corners

of years for that

blanket

                  I’ve

already earmarked

the book to page 3.