The sky still looks as big as December’s,
as I sit within this big circle of pines.
Miserly maples and oaks and big-leaf trees
still clutch Spring in their tiny fists.
The mate-baiting robins find scant hiding places
within the space between branches,
their vermillion breasts puffing up
and glowing in the sun as if they’re
retouched photos on a computer dating site.
But soon enough, this will all close in,
when the leaves come out to play in the sun,
forming a vernal wreath framing the cul de sac.
Perhaps by then I’ll be able to see it all
from the opposite side of this infernal window
framing the space outside these four walls,
here where life goes on, here where
I count it in the click of these remaining seconds,
not the tweeted beats of robins’ forever songs.
But still, it’s life.
Day 2 of April’s poem-a-day quest: a “space” poem. I don’t think this is what they expected, but that’s how I roll.