Seeing Spring, Genuflecting
by Deborah DeNicola

    The sun's doing something different
    with the east end of the house,

    something tinged with peach
    inside the mini-blinds, light
    sliced like grapefruit,

    something I want to worship.

     The infinite in the concrete,
    gold of a dustmote

    in the lap of my amber armchair, hints
    of an indivisible world -- Morning
    slips off her nightgown,
    enters naked

    the vestibule of day, gentle flow of city traffic
    like the roll of an ocean outside my window.

    Seeing Spring, genuflecting,
    the forsythia flounce their heat as sun
    bronzes the horizon

    like a king who blinds us now
    because we want to see too much.

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