It's just poetry, it won't bite

scarcely spring


05.11.18 Posted in today's words by

Ariel Boswell is a nurse in Rochester, Minnesota.

scarcely spring
By Ariel Boswell

the sun’s arc shoots higher;
the light lingers,
the crisp air whispers warmth 

I pass the detritus
of winter’s receding snows:
the white smudge of dried salt,
dry bleached grass, a tangle of bush
spotted with paper wrappers
sometimes hidden by leaves,
a puddle of feathers—a fallen bird—
a soggy red mitten 

when the sun shines,
the remaining snowbanks
create roaring streams,
brown puddles
perfect for splashing in rainboots;
dogs’ paws are brown-tinted
from the water and mud

I watch the tea-colored runoff
surging down the street,
pouring into the cauldrons
of the sewer,
down, somewhere
to meet the rivers,
the ocean

and it’s only just begun,
this lengthening of days



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