NaPoWriMo - day #16

This spring does not feel like the others.
Sky comes through the window
light blue and each year it feels 
how I assume a prayer would  
though I do not take the time to learn. 
But now, our days are growing longer 
and thicker. They are aching. 

This feeling is wildgrass; 

dry September death. 

Forming a line around the casket 

we are gentle captives 

standing six feet apart

as above, as so below. 

Discomfort like this is 

an unseasonable affair. 
We mourn what it no longer 

means to be alone.

But together we will witness

this season’s departure. 

Color will leak through cracks

of newborn eggshells. 

Symphonies of spit and sweat

will play as our skin 

touches in the sunshine. 

And finally, the fences 

will be covered

all the flowers will vine 

in ways we thought 

would never return.