The city walls are burning.
Our enemies tap dancing,
thick swords sharpening,
but baby blue skies
make it easy to walk below
the undying willows,
fluffy yellow chicks,
waddling in the changing wind,
pathways camouflaged
by spring’s thickening limbs.

I find the one from last season
with its legs turning tan,
toes pointed to the sky.
And I let my blues drape over me
alone where we were together,
the first fertilizing time.
Fingers find dirt instead
of wavy, auburn hair.
Scrape at stones instead
of joining the next blockade.

The war proceeds,
but I am just a weed
planted here, green
this year, your seed freely springs,
unseen, still in the small space
of sunlight left behind
when your shadow went
marching to the frontline.

Winter battles smothered our fire,
but spring’s insistency multiplies
grief’s cries, and these homicidal desires.