Awakening

The life-giving season

Smoke signals find their way like serpentine

snakes twisting into the sky.

As silent echoes from a snuffed wick they

evaporate, spreading into blue air

and are gone.

While many stand by and wait for rescue,

the seasons turn and birth comes

out of barrenness.

This is the time when I find myself

cleaning up like spring necessity.

Vacuuming under mats, polishing bright,

clearing the ashes of a quiet death.

Again the surfaces are clean.

Sometimes we carry our dust-ridden layers

of gray powder we contain like

private burials.

We hold this against us stubbornly,

unable to say goodbye.

We inhale it.

But this season, when it comes,

is like a sprig of ivy flourishing

where growth had ceased.

The wind is changing direction,

is lifting the blade with its wet breath.

Your signals of stifled fire are drenched

in this day.

Again it is morning and the fire source

is golden, rising.