Here and There

It’s true the days are longer,
the sun didn’t get caught under
December’s dark horizon after all.
Buds in the maple seem swollen, signs
of an early spring lie out for all
to read, today breaks open with
sunlight, it makes no sense at all
to blunder in ravines or swear at
barred gates.
No fires burn in the streets, food
cascades from the market shelves,
water flows from faucets . . .
The old man, homeless, naked, hand
broken by torture, eyes sunk deep
in sockets, wanders in a season
where the sun contends with clouds
alive with bloody beaks and
extended claws.