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by Bill Vartnaw
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Spring    & for all the craziness
& death, I find I’m still in love
with, among others, myself

O, adventurers would find
me boring as they venture up their mountain
I’m nowhere near their trail, still
spring courses through me
like a fifth cup of coffee
in an hour

I walk monoxide sidewalks,
searching for something in the windows to redeem
my idle habits—mere objects
have never held me for long, unless
they have meaning to engage my wit,
otherwise they’re just someone else’s elevators
          going up to a price tag
I’m not willing to pay. The traffic
(& yours truly)
always has had a mind of its own that honks
when it thinks it’s right

Do I ignore responsibility? We can think we do
Everything that is done to/by/for us—
Well, we can choose the moon. It enters
our lives on such a regular basis
we nearly take it
for “granite”?
Then, one night
much like any other, except it’s this night
under this deepening blue sky
with all its bright twinkling thisses
The—                                  moon
big & pale
crescent yellow,
just above the hill—
reflecting off electric skyscraper windows—
Everything I feel tells me:
Honk! what is distance
when Spring is coursing through

©2008, Bill Vartnaw

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Bill Vartnaw is a northern California boy with roots around the Baltic. His second book, Suburbs of my Childhood, was published in 2009 by Beatitude Press in Berkeley, and in 2011 he was named Poet Laureate of Sonoma County.
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Spring Poems collection > Table of Contents

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