Spring has come again. To say it's all changed
is scarcely an understatement.
Not because the sky is swamped with new blue.
Not because those usual markers, the red and yellow flowers,
throng the avenue. So, so it is. So they do.
But you know, my screen door rides a zinc track
like a train its rail- numbingly cold to step on barefoot
in winter, it zings up your tracts and boggles your tonsils,
if, that is, after winter-so-long you still feel anything at all.
Yet, in Spring, a pleasure it is, inviting the heel to stay.
And today the runner's warm. About the door buzz
the newly-awakened, redoubtable Harlem flies. Prettily
slips the screen. Tread the runner today
and your foot'll feel a trove of warmth
stored up from the sun. You will say 'ah' or 'more.'
It's for that reason but not that only I declare
Spring again come: metals, scalding in summer, frigid in winter,
are bearable now. Sure, there's the sky, the wild bloominess of things;
but not to forget that door, its track,
adding felt welcome. Other than what we see.
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Comments about this poem (Wiedergekommen by Morgan Michaels )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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