Every spring it happens.
We wake logy, propelled
forward like coils
from our secret seeds.
The chambers of air fling wide,
echo with bats
cracking on diamonds.
In the windowbox
cactus fingers flower.
Against all odds --
ozone leaks, birds dying,
freezing gas whirling in space --
this shimmering rise,
a balloon floating,
a moon.
We stand on the porch in the fading light
feeling the blood rush of
bad teenage earth,
immortal on rollerblades,
whizzing past, green hair spiking.
Our eyes hold a circle dance
round as an egg,
time a glowworm
fragile in cupped hands,
and our tiny hearts
break open, begin again.