false spring

it’s spring, but not really,
for i regret to inform you that
the baby sparrow in the nest has died
and his mother has not returned since.

ohio’s “false spring”, we call it,
when the worst has passed, you think,
drinking your coffee on the gazebo furniture
that still smells so strongly of mothballs.

we watched the eggs in the holly wreath
as the baby poked his incisor beak through,
desperate first gulps of the warm march air,
and we clapped for the promise of new life.

my sister asked if we should bury him,
but i must admit, i have not looked there since,
perhaps because i’m afraid to risk the sight
of the broken promise of feather on bone,

or perhaps because spring has since come.

the rain weeps through the cracks of my window,
and i weep too, wishing for a one-day grace,
a lull in the reality of those final winter days,
neither true nor false, just a moment to be.