Poem for Friday, March 29, 2013

Equinox

Through still dead arms of oak and birch
a single-engine plane sputters
across its own equator

angering the very sun.

It is no secret that we are still between
seasons. That an ice-wind
oligarchy can rule with

stone-faced vengeance.

It is no secret that we are still between
seasons. Still dead crops
out the plane window

choked by wildflowers.

Here we have the age-old cycle: waking
from a silly kind of death

to thaw
  to bloom
    to whisper sweet nothings
       to your love across the room.