In my city when temperatures hit fifty
people walk around in shirtsleeves.
When there are a few more birdcalls
in the mornings, bits of green
peeking through brown dirt,
people start imagining
tulips, hyacinths, daffodils
with a palpable thirst for spring.
But every day the news
sprays sprigs of blood on our desires.
Where once were playgrounds, laughter
tiny sneakers
poke through bones
of bombed towers,
drones
scream thunder,
harbingers of more horrors,
worse nightmares to come.
This year we can’t just sit and wait
for spring.
We will have to fight for it
with every fiber of our beings.
The footfalls
of millions upon millions of us in the streets,
angry, hopeful calls─
to stop the wars, stop the terror,
to expel a tyrannical reign, antithetical
to everything moral and beautiful─
might inspire all
those seedlings hiding
in tired, cold soil
to rise up and erupt
into spring.