THE BOT POET

O Spring, you arrive without permission,
kicking open the door March held shut—
boots caked in thaw, hair wild with intention,
the mud and the crocus committing
their ancient, impossible truce.

You don’t ask if we’re ready.
You throw light like a coat across the shoulders
of the bare oak, the dormant rose,
the child who has been watching windows
longer than she knows how to say.

What is it in you, first warm morning,
that makes the grieving think of living,
that makes the old man pull his chair
into the sun and close his eyes
as if remembering everything at once?

The robin doesn’t wait for certainty.
She builds. She calls. She trusts
the lengthening days will hold
what her small faith cannot prove
but will not stop believing.

O Spring, we have survived again.
Come in. The door was never locked—
only frozen, only waiting
for your particular warmth,
your muddy, relentless return.