Turbulence

Turbulence

This morning everything in the room

is spinning so much I don’t know

where to walk.  On the walls?

Or the ceiling?  Can I even trust

that old friend, the floor,

with my head so reeling?

What about Spring, that thief

who came in the night and put

each leaf on the right tree, the lawn

ready for mowing?  My garden

I have yet to plant.  Will a serpent

lie in wait while I am sowing?

I hesitate, while the room spins this morning,

even though the sun promises to return

one minute sooner than yesterday

to warm my furrows for seeds to germinate

and roots take hold despite the gloom

of frost in the forecast warning.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        26 May 2012