Perennially Close to the Ground

In the harbour, green water overgrows the last
ice floes; derelict, adrift in changeable winds.

Perennially close to the ground, the crocus
still stirs to the touch of the spring wind.

Even downtown, among church bells and sirens,
the raven’s call carries far on May mornings.

The lengthening evenings grow warmer while
in the night sky stars grow colder, farther apart.

The magnolias have not yet blossomed. I wait
for them and for you in this stiffening breeze.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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