Poetry
1 min
A FaceTime Call for Spring
Jessica Hsu
When it is spring, I wish I could write only of grass
& trees & flowers, of wind curling around playful
spirits, of the unending streams of water, limpid
& trees & flowers, of wind curling around playful
spirits, of the unending streams of water, limpid
& freezing, running between my fingers. Welcome
home, I hear, as I take my first step in four months
back into my house: home & house, just a two letter
differentiation that I nearly miss when I slowly brush
apart the clouds of dry dirt. As I watch children sketch
figures in soil with sticks, I wish I could master the sky,
swallow smoke until my throat fills with the cries
of geese early this year, scatter petals of purple
poppies into the air & suck them deep in my chest,
point to the bright jewels hanging on hollies
to warn the wayward youngsters. Instead, I am
a thousand miles away, among shoots of green
in a land not swallowed by the sun, surrounded
by a new house, but still I quake, plagued by fears
of burnt wood & weeping of dams. But it is spring.
I dream. I will dream. I dream of small fingers slipping
away from a mother's hand, stealthy body in a purple
jacket, hood thrown back, unzipped, uncaring. Running,
scattering bread crumbs, doggedly traversing across the lake
of the library, ducks fleeing away from this tiny terror, seeds
of dandelions close in pursuit. I pause to pick one. A thousand
miles away, I am shouting, it is spring. Welcome home, spring.
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