Night crawls backward, black decomposing into gray. The sun gets a leg over the horizon then swings up, paints the air white then blue.
Don’t describe the sky. You might as well say, “it got light in stages.”
The sun, on its belly now, slithers up the mountain, pulls on its elbows all the way up until it climbs the oak, stands in the top branches to shout about blossom.
Don’t crow about flowers, you might as well say, “new hope.”
Winter’s frozen ground is worried to muck. Rain takes up the lavish joys of howling, turns sinkholes to fishless lakes, tickles dogwood and iris, calls passerines. A reborn sun makes rowdy, narrow lanes through the trees.
Don’t talk about the weather, You might as well say “changes.”
A vernal breeze strikes the air upstairs, sets grief in the stones along our path. The wind disquiets the skylights and fat drops fall like aluminum coins, beat on the mud, run down the face of Mardi Gras like tears.
Don’t say tears. You might as well say, “Surprised by spring, a person could talk sorrow all the way to Memphis.”