Robert Parham


Great light, sudden and short,
that pretends to be April.

We know the liar, of course,
by the way he whistles,

as the clouds scud as if
to flee, and the eaves

call out "Pretender!"
Further south, though, birds

begin to turn their heads
back, as if pulled toward

where they have been, sun
on the invisible compass,

buds on the dogwood stems
so small they seem a dew,

remnant, yet to be shaken
by the movement of those

asleep with uneasy dreams
that all involve returning.