April So Far

a new poem

April So Far

Ghost tones of pigeons gurgle 
from a red barn gone to rot. 
Caved-in beams sift the sun
into spirals of dust. 
Spring is a spell of vertigo. 
This rush of things 
waking up all at once. 
Forsythias flail, aflame 
in their yellow mania, 
in an alley that was empty, 
iced-over, weeks ago. 
Winter was long. How far 
will the senses reach
to shed winter’s sleep? 
Stand still and listen
to the gasp the ground makes.