false spring

or fools, as they call it

snow melt reveals old green

a friend points out the crows returned

what am i apt

to notice? heavy curtains

dance with their weightedness

when sun falls in 

through kitchen window

its radiance is reached for

the poets in my life offer their analyses

of animals, of monsters,

the self retold in caricature

on the split heels of winter

i am being asked to make meaning

what remains: stone, need, 

solvent. i make myself 

weightless

i douse myself with ice's glare

in the art studio

i am asked to color with what

ive been given:

blue, dark blue, red, yellow pencils

i make meager things, draw a soft impression

of hands 

i notice the absence of knowing

myself, how i neck for some semblance

of stasis

o self, embellished

in scarves and gold

come out from formless glittering