there are things that can’t be captured
in an image or a poem
or a snapshot or a guess what
blossoms love a blood surge of joy at the end of a shift
where freedom has a taste, the sound of a little bird
somewhere letting me know that life is here to sing about
the fleet of blossom on the senses
velvet in the eye, that faint sugar taste
the sound of damp paper on the air
through every nerve ending that spring is
as spring does, like love it’s gone before you’re ready
you can’t find it a cage, like love, it might come around again
but you can’t know for sure that the swans are sleeping just because their heads are down