if it is Spring

and i saw daffodils in February,
yucca gone wild in Kentucky,
broken ridges devoid of waters
springing like wry grins

while up in Cleveland a little 
black squirrel the size of your 
heart thumping in the shag bark 
hickories distracted me from
my uncles long-winded prose
in front of the place my
grandparents once lived.

but i didnt see clearly what all
i was meant to do besides
get carried away by my cousins.

i forgot when life could resume
that farmers would have plowed 
their fields already, and that
red buds could possibly
be presenting with blooms.

i walked through our old house
where when you were alive
foundations rattled with our
wild laughter.

it was carved out, and dank as
a cave with all the implied odors,
and all the beware signs covered 
by last years wisteria.

if this is spring let me tell you
it isnt crisp or clean as the
buckeye leaf buds breaking
out in mass hysteria.

it is vestiges, and it is a pond
clogged and it is more
of a refrain.