|Laurie Soriano ||Spring
Leaves are whispering down, my people
shipping out in moving vans and caskets.
My fingers are listless against
the white sky as the rain begins, and
birds fly twirling and laughing
from wire to steely twig.
The earth has tipped, some I loved
fell off and some rolled elsewhere.
As the moving trucks trembled to go forward,
we kissed briefly, our bodies separate,
and leaned our heads back to keep
the tears from spilling. I have learned
the stolid set of my face when unobserved
when I am gazing off beyond the distance.
The trees revel in the sky
stark but radiant, shaking
off the last of the rain
as a child cries off in the distance
and I go inside and up
the stairs to comfort him.
As he slackens with sleep,
my own murmurs melt me,
my warm fingers on his forehead,
and his unburdened breathing,
and leaves are sprouting.
If we leave the windows open,
we can hear the sound of the Pacific
crashing every night. In the summers,
we are serenaded by sea lions—
a song of lust and dominion
ringing out among the dim rocks.
We have come to a screeching halt
at the edge of the continent,
like cartoon characters clinging
to the edge of a cliff with bare feet.
We ache for shuttling further, for
the oblivion of the new.
A trail of tears leads back across
the land to the vigorous Atlantic,
a trail we need to follow to make
our peace at gravesites, to celebrate
the anguished earth, to piece back together
with tender hands all that we have broken.