spring, it did come slowly.

the days are getting longer,
the light lasting an extra minute
or two
every night;
i watch the sun
settle and sink
all reds and orange and clouds like waves of smoke
behind the trees,
(those lying evergreens that bloom
all through the dark of winter,
pretending like the sun never left them.
they’d have me fooled if i didn’t
catch them shaking
when the wind blows.)
it’s time for spring cleaning-
i spend the whole sticky rainy morning brushing
the dirt
and ash
from the windowsills,
from the cracks,
from the corners.
i pull all those heavy winter worn-out tired things
down the long stairs,
and out to rest on the curb,
my bare feet pale against
the coarse cement.
i sort books and papers
by name and date,
by mine
and yours, which
go in order of relevance-
before is before and after is after
i found your hands buried between her thighs,
before or after i stopped waiting
for your voice
echoing
on the answering machine.
i open to the dog-eared page in some book
you left behind, and i squint to read the first line-
“when we were young, and did not know.”