There’s birdsong in the background of the packing,
The goodbyes. In doing what it does, the pollen
In the humming air-soup makes us sneeze—short bursts
Of breath that draw suspicious eyes, bring hands
To mouths. They say that what we face is strong
And secretive, that some will never show
A sign and some will die. The danger, though
Invisible, is real; and so they say
To take it day by day:
To wait. And yet
The spring is coming anyway. It would
Be easy to frame it as a mockery:
The robin bathing in blue water pooled
Upon the rocks, the surface crowned by clean,
White petals from the pear trees: springtime’s snow.
Or all these leaves, small, sharp, and green, and creeping
Underneath the edge of things. We wonder what
They mean, their major notes colliding with
Our minor key, unceasing.
When I got home,
I found a newspaper bleeding in the street.
Fresh rain had pushed the letters off the pages
And pressed them down, their edges curling now
As if caught up in flames. In fact, nature
Rolls on, indifferent to our tears, our fears.
It is not sentient; it hears no cry or call
Of ours. We stand apart in song, in sorrow—
And yet, the earth obeys the one who set
The circle and the tune.
There is something
He means by it, the constant change of leaves,
The ache of winter and the song of spring.
Beneath disease and mystery the hopes
We bury grow somehow; they will burst up
Like daffodils and never die on the day
When we are washed with fire and holy rain.
I do not say we should not hear or feel
The sorrow or the pain. They clash against
The other tune because
It cannot last.