The God of Spring

The spring sunlight steps over the piously
green shade of the pines,
setting its feet firmly on the unshaven face
of a dead lawn,
waiting for me to kiss its feet,
to bow to the conqueror
whose naked legs
tower over my measly mortal world,
the house now reduced to something ridiculous
with the snow shovel still guarding the storm door
and an unmated glove lying on the porch floor,

but this god is patient,
gives me a whole warm afternoon
plus its muscular legs to hold
as it waits for the snow on my forehead to melt,
for my prayers to open up
like the crocuses and the front door;

Will you accept something from my empty hands?
The memory of spring birds,
the chattering scent trapped
in a closet with summer clothes?

I’m ready to fling open the windows,
the welcoming hands of the house.
Come closer,
even if your next step kicks over the roof;
my prayer lies underneath
as bare as sunshine.