Gail Ghai

RITES OF SPRING



This time of year the sun offers a gauzy cure
of heat to band aid winter's end, when the smell

of earthworms, well water and lust rear-end each
other like cars following too close in that intersection

of desire and dream. It's a time of wind and water,
storms that can devour two hemispheres, blue north,

green south, when we tap the death of velvet, finger
the birth of a silk season as day and night stand in

perfect balance like the left and right hand of Lady
Liberty extending across the earth’s face. At last,

the world shares something equally: twelve hours of sunlight,
of darkness. It's like crossing into the equator of yourself.

A shifting of lines and axis. Is this the tilt I feel when
I wobble toward the mail box in my new purple spikes?

I am an Easter egg poised in pastel vibrations of shell
and membrane as time climbs higher, and the raw March

sun follows with whispers of yellow that rattle the willow,
waken butter twigs of forsythia while house finch and song

sparrow revive their top-hit trills. A spring day so perfect,
so uplifted it stirs Oestra in me, her ancient practices, makes

me want to clear out wool-wet rags of winter, tear dark clothes
from my skin, look up into the vernal sky, and receive a cleansing

as sun bathes the earth in a white-wash of light, and each
cell absorbs her perfect gaze like a revelation, a resurrection.