how can spring, 
so filled with the songs of birds
many i can't identify
how can spring
be so hard?
storms destroy
inner storms, too
bodies rebel
yet are so familiar 
is it that joy has disappeared?
it is the muggy, fudzy wet greeness?
is it despair that pushes at my skin until i say
yes, yes.
sorting out threads, saving some, giving some up. 
and the thursday oriole, first i've ever seen here,
i hope may return.