I remember spring in the city;
the fingers of green sprouting
wordless, soundless
from cement
scrabbling at any chance
life had given them

the way
seemed to bend its way out from behind
even the most alien, deadened forms

the way the air felt; the twinge of hope
beyond all other hope;
I remember the wild-eyed freedom, the
quiet satisfaction of
something beginning

I remember those days
and even now, I miss them.