I have found a season which exists
between New England's winter and spring,
in late March or early April.

You will know it by the bleeding of colors
in the sky at dusk (the orange cream,
the flush of pink, the blue-powdered
lavender) when all the clouds
misplace their edges.

You will ease your body down
into grass damp with what remains
of winter's moisture. Let your eyes
become a mirror for what lies above you:
the ethereal atmosphere.

The trees will reach up with a thousand
grasping fingers, all craving the silk
of the sky, and you will stretch out
your own limbs, unable to resist
the desperate urge to touch.