March Hare

Soon, the green shoot in my heart
will break ground and sprout again
stubborn as a snowdrop
in cahoots, I believe
with the spring-drunk birds
chirping songs I sometimes think I understand,
like Pedro beep, beep, beeping his horn
outside his novia’s house, crying,
“Andale! Andale! Andale!”
or Little John next door in his tire swing, shouting
“Higher, Mama! Higher! Higher!”

Smitten, I suppose by new sunshine,
a bee detoured into my home
and my poor kitten scaled the lace curtains
wondering what all this is about.
I tried to explain it to her
but my words hopped out like panting,
foaming-at-the-mouth march hares
making no sense whatsoever other than
see, hear, smell, taste, touch
and be here now
for this.