Spring Jam

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I
do both—you’ve heard the saxophone weep out notes

so true they trickle down your cheeks like salty
joy, the ninety-two year old maple’s trunk

torn open wide, a dripping hole, and still
it greens! Leafing out so full you would never

know and you, all in white like winter ice,
wheeled from room to room, hoping that after

the knife there still will be another bloom;
no wonder that to keep it alive the jazzman

can’t know where the music will go, hanging on
for dear: the riff that lifts and dips, merging with

the bass, weaving in and out the drummer’s beat,
then at the edge where it would end, leaps across

the void to begin again—yes, that bright note,
that up-beat, that riot in the blood, lifts me over

for another season of green-think, bee-buzzing
about the brain, scent-crazy, intoxicated

with stirrings, ever-young, wreathed and crowned
while down low, if I slow down, I hear the wind

blowing through the gap in me like a distant,
sweet-tuned wail: a blue among the green.

About the Author

Robert Rothman lives in Northern California, near extensive trails and open space, with the Pacific Ocean over the hill. His work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, The Alembic, Existere , the Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Westview, Willow Review and over fifty other literary journals. To view more of their work click below.

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