Spring Poem by GORDON GILHULY

a well-washed morning light looks in

through this small, winter grimed window

surprised, perhaps, to see me

standing there, coffee cup in hand,

even before the hiss and fizz of workday tires

leave their narrow impressions

on the street below



the great and mighty oz of sun,

hidden behind his gauze curtain,

is hesitant to reveal himself

and so the world lies grey,

unsure of itself, waiting

on the edge of beauty

for the sign



in the still naked branches of the birch trees,

the wind is like the sea caught there

unhappy, anxious to move on;

a long and ragged remnant of black plastic

has travelled the wind,

and hangs darkly now

in the top branches of a maple,

thrashing like the flag of the demented

and trying to escape



and I, standing there in the drift of time,

feel the antithesis of grey, of desolation.

wrapped in the perfect faith of innocents,

I know that, were I to lift the lid of myself,

butterflies would emerge.

I know that I have enormous dreams

like fabulous creatures made of silk

inside of me; they rise and billow

and my feet hardly touch the ground.



I am filled with happiness like a man

carrying a cake with candles burning;

I am being coloured in from the centre out.

thoughts of you are hymns

rising like white flocks of birds overhead

and the distance between us

becomes mere geography.



the garden that is my soul is transformed:

its growth and leafing is an act of grace

I had forgotten was possible.

once, I thought I knew how scenes and chapters

ended, with their own inevitability:

now, new endings seem possible;

now, as you stand beside me, a thousand miles away,

I take the moment of your loving, folded carefully,

and place it inside of me, waiting

on the edge of eternity

for the sign.