I.

Of course I write differently in springtime: snow white
letters have melted. Ice has turned into tasteful rolls.
Every eye a small god watching over green and blue
and buzzing telephone wires. All over the world’s ears
demand songs, drummed, hummed solo or in groups.
We are dancing, dancing for the first leaves, dancing
for the resurrection of old trees—we are here. Here.
We are. We dance. Here.

II.

It lies crucified on the street, this frog, flattened
in the dirt. Open jawed, curling toward heaven, sun
dried. At a distance resembling a sole, a relic
from earth’s past, it was stopped mid-jump. Fat flies
gorge themselves, then lift off, blood on their wings,
heavy, heavy. Their larvae that will hatch tomorrow
still sleep. One would like to imagine they dream.
The blackbirds circle. Here, too.