REVIVAL

I know spring

is the mark of new life,

but all I can think of when

I see a tree heavy with white

flowers swaying in the wind

is the back of my grandmother's head,

how her hair floated in curled pieces

against her earlobe, soft

against the nape

of her neck.

To watch the city change

is a comfort

every times.

The earth knows what to do.

This old girl turns young again

and again.

I smell it on the air

a single breath of warmth making

knuckles of green

knot on the black fingers

of bare branches.

I see it in this morning's naked dogwood,

thick with snow last month,

flush tonight with little blossoms,

darning a strange lace around

a wilted balloon, twisted

and stuck since autumn.

I hear it in an old woman's voice

as she talks about her husband,

the way she says the word "love"

like it's a flower

blooming in her mouth.