The air hangs fresh from freezing last night,
the thaw not yet thrown up bouquets of decay.
Grass in the park crunches under my feet.
The melt has refrozen, rough as March skin,
and the sun hasn’t risen enough to make wet.
The angle’s too low, hurls shadows from gravel
and grit on the sidewalks: the tiniest totems.
But after the grime is swept up and piled,
and the earth’s rich sweat rises up like a sneeze,
I’ll call it spring.
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