Spring

Is it me or the world?
Who has been asleep these past few months?
The answer should be easy and clear
–And yet
Sometimes I wonder
Is it me or the world?
My hand now warmed by the steel of the bridge over the swollen river,
Whispered on by soft rays.
Was a warmth there during those long, dark months?
And I too afraid to touch it out of some fear of disappointment?
Perhaps not the same warmth
Yet a semblance of it still.
Is it me or the world?
The soft new buds,
The growing green,
Is this only a seasonal change?
Or am I just now beginning to see?
During those long nights of frigid darkness
Was it growing and blooming?
Or have I attained clear sight at just this time
By perfect coincidence?
Is it me or the world?
The swirling and buzzing swallows,
Glimpsed on a sunny day,
Framed against a topaz sky.
Have they been there all along?
Was I unwilling to catch sight of those forms upon white clouds
Amid silent snowfall?
Is it me or the world?
Has my tiring of blindness led to the restoration of sight?
Or is it our tiring?
Have we collectively willed this new season?
Or are we all just now beginning to see
And feel
And touch?