maybe it’s all about looking out the window.
the one that tells you those days of watching snow recede are buried white.
the one that’s smeared with peanut butter fingers and drool lips, because your boy can’t stop kissing the outdoors
i couldn’t. look out the window yesterday, until i finally did and i stood there holding the washcloth dripping soap and tears and
it wasn’t just winter scalping spring in early april
it wasn’t just the memory of his toes in grass and wagon-rides and red boots in puddles
it was the waiting.
the waiting and the almost and then sky’s giant shake of no.
trent talks about freckled robins with our baby and there’s light on the floor like someone spilled a bowl full of sun
and i hear husband’s whisper, again, from early that morning: “we get to watch the green happen all over again-which is the best part!”
sun on the floor; i stick my toe in it, and it’s warm
maybe it’s all about looking out the window,
about seeing what you don’t want to, because if you didn’t,
you’d miss the peanut-butter fingerprints and