Prematurely, Spring winked slyly at me
from a robin perched at the top of a tree.
The sky appeared frantic, confused, and dazed,
like a deer in a snowstorm who had lost her way.
March, the twentieth, came and left,
turning my spirits chilled and bereft.
Then one fine morning when least expected
millions of goose-bumps had been disconnected.
A housebound person need not be denied
that first nod of springtime on everyone’s mind.
A world made of windows, cement, and boards
could drive an invalid out of his gourd.
The greater world opens its jaws as he sneaks
through a side door and the freedom he seeks.
Familiar maples tipped colorful hats,
a gesture that brought him scurrying back.
Life from the inside, with its frames of glass,
is safe and secure. He can live with that.
That which becomes our unspoken fate
is often the place we love to hate.
Janet Lewis Burns