the rite of spring

sunday morning, i walked away
from an old habit, shrugged off like
the cold that leaves your bones when
you reach towards the warming fire.

there is hope in these lines, though
hard to recognize, uneasy like the
stranger’s glance in the quiet elevator,
a few seconds of tight cables, counterweights,
and gravity bringing us back to earth.

this poem has perhaps written itself out.

winter is over. bulbs I’ve ignored
for three years still bloom, but I
can’t remember their names.

the breeze smells of rain,
texas sand, and oklahoma wheat.
cold months of a frozen moon reflecting
snowfall give way as
forgotten gods raise eyebrows
and wait for sacrifice.

there’s a picture of me, ten years old now,
on horseback, my posture tall, my hands tight
on the reins, muscles flexed to slow the animal’s pace.

I am smiling. The sun is not in my eyes, but shines
upon me. Everything I lacked in that photo,
I now possess.

The guilt-ridden girl who danced for you, she’s not here.
This isn’t her pen across the page. I pity her, but
I am not sad to see her gone.