March Morning, New York City

At last the earth lifts the cobbled street between Church and City Hall back in line with the sun.

The host of sparrows in their barren scaffold catch fire again, flickering and dancing like bright bits of glass.

The forsythia hedge at the iron gate— yesterday a row of tattered sticks, today a shining brass parade.

And the grey coated regular strangers, befriended by this old street, drink the new light with their eyes and faces,

tasting maybe the very beginning of time when the sun first made the world a thing that could be filled with joy.