Not sure if this is moving in the right direction, but here is draft two. I can’t help but cringe anytime I attempt writing nature into my poetry. I’ve always been horrible at it.
Baby birds fly past my porch on the first
day of spring, their trip from Florida or
somewhere down there where heat
proves perpetual in so many ways.
Where I am now becomes just another
town after the next one and the one
after that. Trees are my only constant. I replace
human beings for barked backs and arms
unafraid of shedding and routine. Yet
I swear-off the seasons, rip sweaters
from shoulders mid-winter
when those same trees strip down-
an offering of intimate embrace.
And when summer stays
and stays longer, I ball into afghans:
yarn my grandmother thread through
her fingers warms me as if I was once
folded inside her belly instead of my mother’s.
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