It's Spring, we fear
because so little had been saved for seed
when winter drove hands from the field;
the task of tilling seems beyond all strength
unless we consider salmon's urge to spawn
or the corner man with his suppurating leg
who leans against the brick, a promise of peace
in a skewed glass eye --
the child at her theme, who chews on the pencil tip
for and, no subordinating clause.
Spring again, green frogs back, plus or minus limbs.
What can she write? the day creeping on bruised knees;
somewhere a road with hens, one-syllable words.
Spring is not dumb, hawking its wares,
full-throated cries of birds, a hectic overflow,
always a voice pure and shrill.
She's writing how she climbed the meme of a tree
on some cityscape or hill, the riddled branch like an omen
spearing the cold, piscine cloud.
Carol Alexander's poems have been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies. Her chapbook Bridal Veil Falls is published by Flutter Press. Recent work appears in Avocet Weekly, Big River Poetry Review, Clementine, The New Verse News, Split Rock Review, and Poetry Quarterly. New work is forthcoming in 3 Elements Review, Eunoia Review, and Poetica.