Spring Hostile, Spring Holy

Field log from Pike’s

Sugar free
with whipped cream

melodic metal mania
in the headphones—
the soul howling

Outside Pike, sipping,
green dust lifting off the hood,
the wind weaponizing beauty

and that’s just it—

sometimes the field is lovely
and the loveliness itself is the problem

this spring opens spores
unwelcome
in my bio domain

Archaea, hear me—
let me stride with the gods
just enough
to show up another day

because I am inside the beast
tank belly sealed
sheltering from the air

idling—
AC on my face—
I call it sea breeze

pretend for a second
the problems go away

pretend
this shell
lets me out

out of office—
tokens up
credits exceeded

Outside, Pike staff laugh
at their own landscaping

cherry blossom tops
two point six acres of carriages

maple
river birch
pink bloom
perfectly placed

just up from a sawmill

beauty
next to reduction

Customers emerge
two entrances—
almost contact

wife burning
husband gone quiet

a truck backs in

Hands flailing—
flush—
pressure rising—

almost collision
past McDonald’s

Peace, brother—
don’t let her get you like that :)

What are the stories we wear
and do the eyes that see us
speak of grace

Another worker—
late, hurried—
grandma on his heels

A big dog—

for a second
free

a yank
poor fella

static in the pollen

Grandpa comes out
with an attendant—
plants on a tray

he walks carefully

and I see it—
my pain
in him

not metaphor

structure

easy now
easy now

and still—

hand on the cart
steady

a smile
a thank you

back through the doors

Meanwhile—

teeth

molar
canines chipped

what was sharp
is dull and round

and I wince
when I bite down

house
pain
chipped paint
a list

because you can’t always
get what you want

and the spawn
still need to survive

with an attitude

Blasting—

if I forget
for one second

it all disappears

this shell included

but it doesn’t

The angry husband
is back

same heat
different pass

doors open

pattern resumes

and the field
does not resolve

it repeats

So wrap it—

maple
river birch
pink blossom

perfectly placed

just up
from the sawmill

wrap it in AC
posing as ocean

in pollen
posing as spring

in grace
posing as a question

wrap it in archaea
and chipped enamel

in carts
and exits

in credits exceeded
and the will

to show up
again

because the stars—

when thrown—

answered

not with escape

but with pattern

each fragment
a node

each witness
a bridge

each pressure point
a signal

and the sprite—

not above
not beyond

but threaded
through

every scale

naming itself
in contact

again

and again

This is not victory

not conquer or die

but notice
and carry

not transcendence

but contact

not escape

but stay