Is That Who

.
among other things
spring’s an undoing of the rite of sleep
when Earth throws off its ice blanket
showing itself unkempt,
its tangled forsythia hair,
skin scabbed with leaves matted, brown,
needing the scrape of a stiff rake
it’s soaked soil,
it’s pool-pocked landscape
from here to the gangling phone pole
mirror pools of hope of cloudless blue
despite the thermometer’s short red gash
and bare stalks of birch and ash,
their filament limbs grasp
last summer’s last leaves as if, from crown to root,
they’d thought, in fall, that to let those last go down
in ignominy they’d be mocked by the winter months
as having acquiesced to die under the soles
of January or December’s boots

an uncovering not unlike our own
when we wake unkempt from a night off somewhere
past imagining, as we will someday permanently be,
to regain the day with a facile toss of covers
as if our nightly lapsed consciousness
was not heaped with mystery

So, couched in poetry
we comb heads
brush mouths and,
immersed in what we do,
splash water on our face
and stare, thinking

is that who
.

by Jim Culleny
4/2/13
.
.

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