This dry Spring
the parched earth drinks quickly,
every cool droplet precious
as the tears of the bereaved.

The rain furrows the dusty creek banks
like sunken, careworn cheeks.
the timid water hurries
past sandbars and gravel spits,
around balding rocks crowned
with rotting riverweed.
and in the green places that remain
to be sought and found between
the highway noise and the factories,
there the shy ones grieve with us
for all those lost to disease and violence,
miscarriage and mischance.

We round the bend;
the yearlings start and bolt
through the tangled underbrush—
an exercise in their own fragility.
The mother does not run.
she moves warily
a few paces away
and meets our gaze: measured, assessing.
She takes us in, then bows
her graceful neck to the tender shoots
that break the hardened clay,
the gesture her benediction of peace.

It’s spring
So much that
It's almost like a little summer
The birds are chirping
I don't remember flirting
Last time feels so long
Ago
So teach me birds
Wake me up

No drugs
Just love!

Springtime and my soul blooms like a snowdrop after a harsh winter.
I feel that all the bad things slowly go away and I come to life.
I can finally walk through my native small town and hear its whispers,
So I think lifetime is not very bad and now I can try to give a drive.

Baby, let's on the run with me,
Take my warm and tender hand,
Have fun as hard as you can be,
I won't give you up 'cause I'm your man.

If you suddenly start to fall, just know that I'll pick you up like an iron wall.
Don't worry about problems, just call them tasks and keep them to any autumns.
Baby, don't worry about the things will happen, just let the river go to its own way for the rules of the planet.
And just sing Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.

Life,
Fragile,
Like the surface of a liquid.
We leave our bodies,
Becoming the same body of water,
Carried away in that great river,
Constant and flowing.
Is our ending so final?
Can we too evaporate into the clouds,
Becoming the springtime rain,
Fragile and full of life once more?

If today

I never wrote

I would have disappointed

this spring

I can't remember

last year

or even springs before it

I can't remember how many split

seconds surrounded me tenderly

like water

I hide in the house

can't see the crimson of a certain flower

can't hear the sound

of a delicate bud jumping for joy

I can only

hold a cup of aged green tea

fantasy or speculation

glistening verdant details

of all things

when I look back at so many springs

many years later

I remember this

every breath I breathed

I had waited.