I fill the window,
nothing in my arms.
Is it the green
that draws me out?
New buds on the elderberry,
on the old, brown wood
of last year. Think of it
as a beginning. I’ve opened
not all of my windows,
but some of them.
Is it the morning
of the poem?
I am like a secretary
in the garden,
moving leaves around
like old papers,
like Auden’s pale
papers. So think of me
as a nature poet
in New York City.
It has happened already.
Winter only melted,
everything the color
of paper for so long.
Colors are having
their way with me.
Coffee in a turquoise
cup. It’s blue, the sky
and that moth
so very white. Little
blue scilla popping up,
I didn’t plant them.
One man walks by
with a limp. I live
where all my neighbors
are aging quickly.
I can’t get over
how it all works together.
Reading a poem
someone wrote for me.
I say the same thing
over and over
like old men
buying birdseed
at the hardware store.
Every spring, it’s the same.
A clock I hear ticking,
while all the birds
are in red coats,
blue coats, yellow,
and velvety brown.
It’s the grey of the stone
at my feet. It’s the red chair.
It’s the tulips coming up
that I can’t quite care
about anymore.
It’s getting warmer.
It’s a day like any other.
[In conversation with Schuyler’s poem “February”]
-Morgan English