What Passes for Spring – by Jane Sasser

From him she learned beginnings of things—
first evenings she realized it wasn’t dark
at six o’clock, the sun shifted to new angles
in mornings still otherwise cold and clear

as birdbath’s frozen rain. Bladed leaves
from bulbs wintered in frigid earth, sure
of time’s turning, whole blueprints of life
fisted in dusky mass. The music of frogs

in woods, subtle swell of fig buds.
The morning winter’s grays and browns
were dusted in yellow-green. Smell
of red clay furrowed and fresh, as though

dirt itself were inhaling spring. And through
newly warm air and symphony of birds,
the swing of her father’s arm, casting
seeds and ceaseless hope.

From him she also learned endings,
the morning he put away his hoe,
days in the stark oncology ward,
nights driving home she barely noticed

silver-white cherry blossoms lucent
by streetlights, and she missed daffodils
and new grass, celebrations held without
her witness, the way spring hurtles

into summer and then fall, so much
incursion and mess, the way daylilies
bloom and fade, so much frenzy,
swan songs always too soon.

Jane SasserJane Sasser grew up on a North Carolina farm. Her poetry has appeared in JAMA, North American Review, The Sun, and other publications. She has published three poetry chapbooks: What’s Underneath (Iris Press, 2020), Itinerant (Finishing Line, 2009), and Recollecting the Snow (March Street Press, 2008). A retired English teacher, she lives in Fairview, NC.