Spring Prophesy

When the high wall breaks

upon you in a wave

of chrysanthemum petals like

burning green

sparks at a New Year festival,

and the purple martins hover

above their nests, diving and

soaring,

never landing as they eat

scrambled eggs that you

prepared just

minutes ago and are

now launching towards

their voracious wings

held aloft by some

will that is external to you

yet dusts your cheeks like a fine

sand in the morning,

making you glow like the

dawning sun

seen through last night’s wine

glass left on the terrace wall to

collect tears of morning

dew, then you will know

that what I say is true.  The green

leaves on the tender

tips of maple twigs pulse with

the same sap that is in you

and I.   The martin winging over

your head purples with the same

urge as your lover before

all knowing is abandoned

to impulse.  The cricket the martin                

eats enraptures its sensitive

thighs, opens them to the wind,

lets everything in.