When does spring start? (Others are asking, too.)
I feel you, March, your confusion of whys,
your cross tides of opaque gray and clear blue.
Sunshine unhats our bald domes while on high,
a cloud skyline builds in all gray-scale moods.
Wishes and circumstances mix to gray.
We worry our daughter has more than flu—
asthma, we fear, from this commercial bay.
Daydream: we relocate to Hawaii—
except it’s pricey with no jobs, they say.
Our decisions are so multilayered—
our minds change when moths flap in Malaysia.
As life unfolds, we drop what we preferred.
The order is: march. May I march with you?
The last step was proved by what we weathered.
Your next cloudburst catches me unsheltered.
"My poem from last week is more about worry than actual knowing. But it is a serious worry. Both Lauren and I have suffered from asthma to various degrees and we know the air quality in Richmond - the whole Bay Area - leaves a lot to be desired. But actually moving is so hard to cotton to. It represents such an uprooting for us both, who have been here 20 years each, made a stand here, bought and remodeled a home here... The poem is more about worry, worries clearing, optimism, optimism graying... Big sigh..."
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