It is Spring, in the City—a poem

it is spring, in the city, and you are learning what ‘holding’ means, what it means to be held:

I trod, with lithe steps the pale grey pavement
gasping, grateful—
the ground, like a sigh, opens up to me—it trembles at my touch,
like a lover waiting,
the anticipation sweet, gentle, raw

squaring the street corners, brick walls press inwards
they are soft with soot and grime
their worn faces chafed smooth by the relentless ebb and flow of the city overtime
their backs stand, ramrod straight against an achingly blue sky—
desirous of human touch
for the brush of a tentative finger,
or the edge of a skirt, briefly eddied in a wind

the streets are bordered with trees rippling and supple—
birch, poplar, maple
—they, like dancers, with their pattering feet and laughter like waves, bubbling over rounded sea glass,
blow kisses into the wind
onto the cheeks of pedestrians passing unaware and always in a hurry somewhere
—they see themselves faceless, elsewhere

—and how the world strains forward, leaning to hold you
you—with your wild heart always so keen on the going
eyes wide for the next crest over

and the world, its heart constant, even, beating out its steady rhythm:
“Here I am. Here I am. Here I am.”

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