Spring Triptych
(Bruce Smith)


Such a hard thing
(frightening, sad)
is turning off
the hot water
in the shower
    in the morning
        in Winter.


Spring is an unexpected snow storm,
a misty cold morning rush hour
halted by a procession of geese.


Against the window I survey
a shelf of cups and trays filled
with a moist, speckled brown
and see (imagine, hope?)
minute flecks of green
thrusting upward
through dense dirt;
yearning for sun
like sad spirits raised
from dead depression;
pushing on ‘gainst hope and reason
toward a future brighter.

Tell me, what creates the sprout—
who stoops so low as
to inspire, point out
what to do and where to go?
what voice calls, “Now! Rise!”

A child, a witness to Spring,
I’m humbled to the roots:
once again struck dumb with awe
by this miracle predictable and common;
moved to ecstatic, frightful worship
of the seed.

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