From a manuscript in progress.

It was a typical February 29th,
Chiming with the senses,
Which reported pink
White, and purple fires
Lighting up eligible trees
One by one at once.
Day spread from its peak
The indisputable signs
Of early spring, given
To be lost. I got it
From you, you from me

What I was hearing
In the pines wind fed to noise.
It was partly fully true
Like a day that comes once
From nowhere every four years,
Appearing without borders
To example the feeling
We live a premature future.
The world and the feeling
Conspired to produce this
Sense of vague touching

Registered in the distance
Between breeze and branch,
Mild awkwardness over
What to do with the real
Fake time, suspicions
These gaps in the trees
Define the plane of feeling.
There was no plan those
Optimistic in wanting
The usual impermissible things
Could attach to. There was

No people. Buds opened
At the speed of bureaucracy,
Bees canvassed in the scant.
I closed my eyes to privilege
The other senses still
Letting light through
To its two retrievable coins.
This was about all I could do,
Turning, eyes still closed
And only barely mine,
To refresh all the new.