by Sue Oringel, for Judith Krause

Now that funky Central Avenue is dressed like a bride
with lines of Bradford pear trees bursting in white
and shad bushes peep from stands of trees
showing just a bit of crinoline
and magnolias fling their pink or white gloves
on newly manicured lawns where redbuds
unroll thin ropes of red-purple pearls

and the spring peepers rhythmically screech their needs,
I am dazed and grateful after all my seasons with death.

Even though the body’s warranty has expired,
spare parts, mostly, can be had, and the great world is
warming and waking up.  I find myself
almost surprised to be alive, if tired,
and clasping what I had and have.