The rain lifts
but a wet green clings
to all things. The air
shimmers like a full glass. This
was as much water as the earth could hold.
This was what
it takes to hatch life–
to squeeze new buds
through hide-black bark grown thick
and coarse from wear.

Spring in the city. Here,
where we read
by the light of one
another’s window,

where we live in relative quiet
our ancestors must envy, lulled
by the gentle tilt
and sway of our days,
each as ordinary as cloth,
as dull as dust.

We will meet when
the water recedes. Where
we will meet the traffic sounds
in the distance and white petals fly
and climb
to unexpected heights, taken
by the wind in circles
wider and wider.

(There are many such spots
in the city, to imagine
how it must have been
at the toppling of the towers, at
the setting of the seas…)

Soon enough,
we too will be blown out in the wind.
So, if we are not happy, at least
we are fearless to expire.
Even as the soggy land falls
back into the belly of the sea,
we look for footing.


I wrote a poem about rain.  But I do wish it would stop raining.


5 thoughts on “Spring

  1. Anonymous says:

    Hi Lulu,

    How do you manage to write and do science at once? Do you know others who do this? It is very hard to hang on to writing (and more than this, feeling) when science demands all of my attention. It’s hard to do science when my heart is not entirely in it…

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