Tuesday, March 15, 2022


In mid-March, after 
turgid winter
loses its grip, 

but the land is still 

and stubborn 
and dead, 

the small flame 
of a cardinal—all arrow-
sharp angles 

of fierce red 
and yellow—may look 
more than a little 

from your window. 

But more perplexing still 
to your groggy, 
undead soul

are his fervid responsorial 
and its notes 
of braggadocio. 

What earthly utility 
could exist? 
you might wonder,

in his crowing like this 
so early in the morning 

about some new-
paradigm truth
long in coming, 

the nature of which 
only he was 
made to know?