The spring door slams shut
As words are spoken.The oak outside unshaken,
So rooted in the earth is it.Celeste, when I talk about
Money in a rising cloud of fear,It’s not lily pads on the pond
Or the yellow notes of forsythia in the wind,The shad tree heralding spring
Or the hawthorn’s gaiety,Not even lilacs lovingly clipped
For the parents who had wounded you.Let’s be clear, Celeste. Let’s be clear.
It’s that spring door slamming shut.July 2003