Once I lived in the early spring

by Mary Bass Poulin

I expect myself to be more,
achieve more.  My hunger for story
and design drives me.

Complacency endangers me,
but my answers are likely mistaken.
Railing against life, decrying fate,

is the hardest to swallow.
Human nature is hard poetry;
the need to be written, evident,

to create, discover new ways,
accommodate disparate elements.
To enact, not compare:

I may never be
thin enough, prolific enough,
loved or loving enough.

This is my juxtaposition
of the yearning,
the solace of now.

I will, I will wake content
to windows covered in light
with simpler questions,

broader in scope, in wonder.
Once I lived in the early spring.

I want to come back home.
I want to come back to you.