for Laura Savini and Jimmy Webb

On this day,
with the side glance
of a reluctant sun,

We have emerged
from the cold-snowy
backdoor of March.

The granite garrison,
armed with the
stuttering teeth of rakes,

Gathers the debris shed by
trees twisted and bent in
callous northwest winds.

The phoebe, arriving
with her trills of hope,
has set to her task.

The burgeon of new life
beginning to stir,
nested in her breast.

The river seems rushed,
swollen with the long
season of snowfall.

Clouds left behind by
the straining March,
gather in a rush to the sea.

If there is such
a thing as faith.

If there is such
a thing as redemption.

The seventh of this April,
we are believers.

– Daniel Thomas Moran