Spring sounds so confusing
to
the newest birds.
“This is life? Or death?” they’d say
if
their cries were words.
There are no shoots, no leaves,
no
crocus in the grass,
Tho’ summer cigarettes the sky
and glows
through every glass.
But maybe they know more than we
how
full trees are of sap;
What could we know of life and death
who eat meat from shrink wrap?
