Time persists, yes, I can see there are new branches.
The grass, first in a line of transformations,
seemingly risen overnight.
Color is pouring back into the hours,
or forgiveness, whatever the case may be.
With one decisive tug at the earth, the robin’s drawn forth
a shimmering worm,
with such precision, it is almost a cruel pleasure.
This, the nightmare we dreamed but did not wake from.
Time is passing, I concede. A squirrel leaps
from one branch to another.
A hawk studies the field at dusk.
The park announces the season over and over
to no one,
and the silence cranes to listen.
Terraces of light now that the day is longer.
When joy comes, will I be ready, I wonder.