CALL ME BELOVED

I can feel spring waiting, just under foot –
I feel it as keenly as my growing wants,
for shorter sleeves and lush green grass
under bare feet.

even today with the cold’s fingers prodding
and pulling at me through the seams in the windows,
I can see the sun rolling over the blanket of gray
hanging over the city – solemn and golden.
it speaks to a more ancient part of me,
a depth I cannot hope to see that nonetheless
speaks back to the sun.

I am the outsider in this conversation, pale
and shallow compared to the breaking afternoon,
the creeping warm on my skin that stands my hair on end.