MARCH CROCUS

Now that the spring air
has a signal to us
on the Manhattan lawn
by the calyx of my imagination
turning on brownstone to green
now that we listen intently
to arias of Bach cantata
of a local chorus on the radio,
always in the same dream
to press in on the friendship
of a twenty year distance
with the window open
to smell the sky blue sea
along the Atlantic's divide
when kindred hummingbirds
will answer on the trees
and we wrap our initials
on them as a love bracelet,
now as an allergy of pine
opens our nostrils wide
to swim by Whitman's children
by the orange vineyards
exchanging our sleepless eyes
like an old love in the orchard
hides our minds
to give us another chance
traveling toward the statue
of a risen poet Emma Lazarus
on the island of our horizon
and we ask for the first dance
of the yellow crocus
sparkling bright as gold leaf
prior to our listening in
we know a recital is to begin
on Elizabeth's grande piano,
here on a boat reading a letter
or whispering a prayer
to the winds breathless shadow
entangled by the neon butterfly
would appear by paper airplanes
shimmering from the sandy knees
of a dancing body on board
still aching with an Achilles heel
sprained from soccer
thrown by a boy and future bard
reciting Homeric odes
in the courtyard up to the clouds
of our buried pastimes
he with the voice of prophets
in the chilled abyss
of a consummate morning
soon my niece and nephew
at our breakfast nook
when rain has prevailed
is it still time of admittance
that every passing voice
has always failed
its listener's echo
that as we yearn today visiting
at the Metropolitan museum
waiting only for the paintings
of El Greco
thinking of my ancestors
who left Toledo behind
hurrying by the cold iron doors
now exiled to the four corners
of grandmother's shawl,
could it all have been worth it
the exiled peevish hours
all my years back bent
with words to bring out beauty
that only an artist recalls
gathering wild flowers
on the pastel holy walls
in a poet's painful early light
knowing even words
can be magnified
as we recall being abandoned
in our childhood's tangle of verses
yet we return to a melody
in our first reader's response
from our wintry slumber
telling my wanting relatives
who often visit Vermont
there may even be a bear
hiding at home trying to loosen
the bird feeder on the Elm
yet we are here in the Big Apple
when there is time
to be dazzled in a whirlwind
over the grey tongue of city smog
from high alighted buildings
we will still hear the metamorphosis
of this journey's dialogue
and with endurance, sing.