Lisa Steinman
Cold Spring

Someone should wash the study windows;
forsythia, the thickest yellow
this year, and the deepening gray clouds
at what must be dawn, give the thicket

of green spring leaves a texture so dense
seeing becomes a tactile
thing. Behind the luminous gray-green- 
yellow, once in a while, two red

brake lights from a commuter's car wink
in passing. The cherries have not yet — 
clouds of pink froth — floated free but
by week's end, they will . . . . What with

everything condensing or floating,
spring turns heady, yellow the only
stroke of pure color. (The greens are more
matter-of-fact, dark in the ill-lit

morning.) When the sun finally hits,
each floret's bright yellow is so fierce
you can hear them all crying: Fire. Fire.
You reach out to them. They warm your hands.