I knew something had shifted when I again
noticed the glory of the sun rising late last week.
I know, by now, this is the ordinary sort of brilliance
that continues to bloom, without resentment,
through the forgettable, unengaged stretches of days,
years. Those we cannot name, mark or retrieve now.
Some beauty does not die.
Some keeps on.
It was early this week that I found myself singing,
with passion, in a hard rain storm some
songs I've never particularly liked,
melodies I didn't even know I knew the words to --
that it became clear there was a serious problem.
Plant a sprig of mint and turn your back
on it for fifteen minutes,
and it takes over what you call your garden.
It's the same with love or lust.
It was just the smallest thought that I brought home.
Something with your face or scent pressed into it.
A spindly cutting with no roots of its own
that fell in some of my good soil.
And I slept one night, two nights, three, maybe --
and between the dew and sudden showers of
song my life and soul have been watered,
and the brilliant, forgotten sun has risen again
on a glorious, green Spring bed of love unexpected.
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