The spring sun falling through the window,
on a late winter morning,
hits the same every year.
Like a friend I forgot I could love spilling
into an embrace of remembered warmth.
The trees will blink free from their comas
of mourning. I wonder
if they sometimes grieve
the miscarriage of a particular litter of leaves,
more than the countless others?
I used to try and keep the bubbles in my bath
as pets when I was really little,
I guess it’s a similar thing.