A poem about Spring

Other things go about their lives

simply; that is, there are

now buds in a red mist

hanging aloft in the maples,

millions of maples, millions

of buds misting in the air

which in a week will break

into green along the highway

that took us here from town.

And will bring us back, but

not now, not for a day or two,

please God, my face has thawed

and I am capable of sight, my senses

all my senses have come back to me.

Michael Harris