Who knew spring could
bring such surprises—

sparrows excavating beak-by-beak
a grapefruit-sized hole in the crabapple
that grows between two 3-family
houses on Franklin Street,

the last jab of a miracle
serum that so many others are
dying to get, and others who
have died waiting for.

And I—after living five years under
ground—feasting on the view of tiny,
chartreuse leaves on the zelkova
tree across the street;

starlings, house sparrows, blue
jays, robins, and mourning doves
strafing past my 2nd floor window
on their flight paths back and forth.

Who knew those five years of
basement dwelling so molded me,

shaped me like a recluse, a contented
she-bear sleeping 10 hours a day,
never knowing what the weather was
doing, what visions I was missing?

Like the surprise snow on April 16
dusting, then completely covering the purple
and yellow pansies I’d so uncharacteristically
planted in window boxes the week before.

Who knew I’d ever be cloaked again
in this shawl of optimism, this “blithe spirit”
that comes from living with the living,
seeing the seen, being the being?