Chinooks, they say, for the last few days
are blowing out windows, punching at trees,
teasing of spring in the deadlock grim of winter;
powdering breaths of almost-summer,
hale and evocative, driving me mad.
In spring I know I’ve spent another season.
I’ve never had much use for spring;
don’t like it when it comes around,
when it must come, and brings that sap and syrup;
But through that languor, and that longing,
and that listless unbelonging,
there moves the blood of earth that seeks the light.
And winds blow all things clean
And that is right.