By Caleb Jagoda
Early spring: The air, pluming wetly, ignores your existence;
the grass blades with their chins down, saddled and askew
with droplets of dew; the lavender, its purple indifference.
You lost someone out there in the field, in the fog, someone
who looks just like you. He busied himself burying chunks
of your heart, eaten by damp soil. It doesn’t look like it, but the sun
does rise, its struggle hidden, swallowed in smeared gray.
You hope like those seedlings, their sprout—their fingers
green and vying, emerging from nothing, like magic. You must
believe in something. Miming those buds, their shoots, you plant
your hope in the algebra of nature, its wild insistence.
You wandered, got lost. With earth turn, revolution, you’re found.
Caleb Jagoda is a poet, journalist, and MFA candidate at the University of New Hampshire. He is managing editor at Barnstorm Journal and has published work with Polaris Literary Magazine, Write on the DOT, and Down East Magazine. He lives in Dover, New Hampshire.
