i saw the conga line for spring

My mind is a windmill, and my heart is gusting at 100 knots. Spring is unsure and tender life unravels secretly. I am inexplicably overcome by a desire to keep bees, not for honey but for pollination. While walking today, I listened to some music of my 'immortal elders', because it was transparent enough to allow the birdsong to come through. If it had been recorded that way, it would be saccharin; but outside under first cherry blossoms, it was sombre and lovingly painful. I am a thicket inside; paths are growing over. I am full of static but not stasis; all my organs are shifting position, I think, in restlessness. I want to see spring on my skin and want to know that I will bloom too.

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