by Caty Jansury

This spring had no root snow,
no pistachio shells or cigarette butts cemented
into a great melt’s strata.

Devoid of drama

but the smell of Easter seeps in, blue hour
God looming in the basilica at eye level;

church bells competing with roosters heaving primordially in a pine tree.

Small sounds sacred like scattered pigeons with muffled wings,
exhaling with an organ’s lung, one low note, almost Om.

Downhill the rainy river, mouthing palpably at the Atlantic,
is enshrined in low hanging clouds,

the last of it, residual dread shed
off winter backs and folded hands.

Orange flowers origami into the kudzu again, and again

and through Shangri-La mist a weak sun,
music in the bones,

something happy or holy knocking at the door.

Caty Jansury is an MA student of Culture Studies at the Universidade Católica Portuguesa, and holds a BA in Dance from the University of Colorado at Boulder. She lives in Lisbon, Portugal, with her partner and her tuxedo cat.