I wrote this poem during the early days of my first spring living in New York City. It is a celebration not only of the season, but of the city itself.

spring

i.

She thinks about how electrical plugs are considered male and outlets female: her extension strip is getting laid more than she is…Never mind; the sun is out and she has her window wide open. This slithery jazz is all over her floor. Why will no one understand that she knows women and men are such wonderful things? Sitting, watching the smoke as it comes out of her mouth.

Looking out on the street, no one knows what is in her head, yet she tries so hard to bring everyone in…

ii.

Another moist Saturday night in the East Village. Yes, it’s her more than any other place: narrow and upwardly bright, darkened crevices, always awake. So she’ll go, walking wide steps with her legs and arms and fingertips. This breeze pushes her hair gently like no season can.

Spring, sweet sweat of the earth, how happy she is to welcome you for the twenty-first time!

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Editor: Renée Picard

Photo: Ed Yourdon / Wikimedia Commons