A poem to celebrate spring—and our move north
a year ago, from Jersey City to Syracuse.
Every move recalls every other move,
said the youngest son, as he heaved
my boxes into his car. My body to leave
for an electric pathway yet unknown.
Will I be suddenly packing the kitchen
up, another load in the migration north?
Will I be throwing away the dried roses
by my desk, frosted with dust, dessicated,
and pause to crumble the closed buds
and suddenly smell tobacco, cinnamon?
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