The birds’ vivid calls
Make connect-the-dots of sound
Across sky’s blue tarp
And when you branch each call to another
And loop conversation alike
It forms
something
When you part the walls of brick fortresses
And the sun, waiting on siege, captures your eyes
Leaving you a newborn lamb on tender legs
To toddle and spin in flowing hues of dresses
And fall to the straightening grass,
who reforms posture in this
something
The mud will squish up through painted toes
And laughs will be conversation
And the sun will paint pink circles
Onto winter-white cheeks yet
hidden away in
storage vaults
Waiting for
something
This something we have come to call spring, but such a word is
not nearly enough to describe such a thing
So in these purposes, it should remain
Something, not anything
But... the something
Of which we are all
so familiar