Maybe it's spring. I'm not sure.
I can't smell it in the air, I can't see it.
I certainly don't feel it when I bundle up
in my scarf and coat every time I leave the house.
A pot of chives on my porch is sending up
tentative spikes, tender tender. Wary.
My rosemary displays only death, grey & crackling.
Evergreen thyme, which has hunkered into itself all winter,
exists still in its own limbo. I snipped a few sprigs last night
to add to andouille & rice along with a scratching
of dried oregano, a sneeze of cayenne.
The worn-out season lingers, a groggy bear
who's used up every ounce of stored fat.