spring

in a dream she asks me
do you think of him often?
i do. i think of him
in the solemn cradle
of dogwood trees.

and then i watch my daughter
blonde hair smoking and
i want ask if her if she
knows
that i am changing
because i am; i am giving
up on tornadoes.
i am exhausted by their
motion
yet still in lust
with their
unpredictability.

in the same dream
i taste her words
in my throat
still a syrup easy to swallow
but this time
the gag reflex
has taken hold.

i am ready for spring.