A Poem for Michael Flynn
Have you ever noticed how quiet spring can be?
I’m obviously not talking about the birds that chatter at dawn
or the birds that chirp at dusk.
And I’m not referring to the frantic squirrels
as they rummage through autumn’s rotting leaves
or chase each other through the branches of freshly budded trees.
I won’t even mention the sound of laughing pedestrians
and the cars driving by with their windows rolled down,
radio thumping with the season’s newest beats.
I’m talking about the silent repose of a room or a house
as winter draws to a close
and with it ends the sound of knocking radiators
and the central heating hum of modernity.
I’m talking about the exodus of friends and family members
to eager gardens, rough mountain trails, and pleasant local parks,
leaving homes oddly empty of bustling human life.
It’s strange, but with the windows open and the door ajar,
spring’s joyous clamor still seems somewhat muted.
And even when the earth is shaking awake with a real racket,
this somehow makes the tranquility inside even more quiet.
Have you ever noticed just how silent spring can be?
Is that silence a bated breath waiting?
Or is it a soft sigh of relief?
If you ask me, I’d say it’s a bated breath waiting,
at least this year, this particular spring —
a waiting to see who remains silent
and who finally spills the beans…