In Boston, spring is sudden,
like a twist of gin, or an evening storm,
sliding out of the dark like an oil spill.
It’s a snail with the sun in its shell,
galloping along like a mint pony.
Heart-shaped graffiti appears between
morning and evening commutes,
steady as a song, staccato as a bobby pin
falling to the tub as I soap up my hair
on these bright bird-mornings.
It’s as soft as two eggs, over easy,
with butter sliding down the slopes of toast,
turning into a fat pool of yellow,
catching the light in its diameter.