The dead speak in spring

 

I nestle among dry bare branches,

sitting close to notice the caps of bright buds.

Bare feet

       stretch toes,

              reach out for warm air,        for earth like worms

blind and craving embrace of dirt.

My hair blows, catches,

in the empty bushes.

I leave it. Become a tree for an hour

Photosynthesize

       R

               O

                    O

          T

 

A sparrow lands

in my branches, cocks its head and looks at me really looks at me chirps at me really looks at me.

I think of my great grandmother who I never knew and how she believed birds were spirits. And if you were visited by a bird; really visited by a bird; It was a dead relative trying to speak to you.

 

I wonder why the dead speak in sounds of spring.

If they’re on the wind or in the sun

Or only in the chirps of birds.

That sparrow looks at me, really

looks at me

I speak back in spring

*

Glass Cave

I sing into jars

To hear the little voice call back

 

I sing into a glass

Press my mouth against the top

Feel the air suck me in

 

No one can hear me,

Only the muffled warble of my call

And I can sing

I can revel in how my voice refracts

like light bending

 

I sing into jars

because my song is for me

And for me my song is pretty,

With echoes and vibrato

I hear every flow

Every breath and stagger.

 

I am a chorus of fifteen voices

come together.

And when that mouth releases

From the rim of the glass

Those voices spring out like rushing water

From the rim of my mouth

And you will hear me