The squirrels have left their winter home in the attic
for the wild full wind in the leaves.
The time of blooming iris is slowly giving way
to longer, warmer days.
Yet nights, that should pass brief and crisp
with renewed life,
spiral slowly thru long moments
of restrained expression.
The moon rises.
A startled bird cries out at midnight.
Shadows move across the room
filled with silent vigil that will not sleep.
Somewhere there are people, laughing,
who know the season has come.
But this room waits, like a bodhisattva,
and does not weep. | 
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