The Solution of Spring

The house was filled with cups,
plates, vases, and teapots,
stacked from floor to ceiling.

She cared for them, or rather,
struggled against the impertinence
of dust and the wobble
of the shelves.

No coffee had ever touched these cups,
the plates remained untouched by lunch,
no vase had witnessed a flower’s demise,
and that’s why they were sick.

She healed them, mending
the tiny cracks
that tears create
upon touching porcelain.

When one, weary,
silently shattered,
she gathered the pieces
and, an atheist, blessed them as best she could.

Then she pondered
if she should calculate
the exact push needed for the first shelf
to transform everything into
a white cloud
of dust
upon the floor.

That’s what she wondered
when the solution of spring arrived.

Outside, the cold froze the sidewalk.

Inside, spring filled the cups,
plates, teapots, and vases
with teas, carnations,
cannelloni, and café con leche.

She couldn’t comprehend.

Someone knocked at the door.

m.p.
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