my color's green

I had a really lovely day today, even though I also did like four loads of laundry and had to run several stupid errands. I also drank coffee and ate croissants outside, and went the farmers' market, and watched a couple of episodes of a new show with my drama-watching buddies, and got to hug and spend time with two different friends in person, which was pretty much the best thing I've gotten to do in months. Tomorrow I have to clean and pack and get organized, and on Monday I leave for vacation, the first trip involving an airplane I've taken in over a year. I can't wait.

     —after Gwendolyn Brooks

No matter the pull toward brink. No
matter the florid, deep sleep awaits.
There is a time for everything. Look,
just this morning a vulture
nodded his red, grizzled head at me,
and I looked at him, admiring
the sickle of his beak.
Then the wind kicked up, and,
after arranging that good suit of feathers
he up and took off.
Just like that. And to boot,
there are, on this planet alone, something like two
million naturally occurring sweet things,
some with names so generous as to kick
the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon,
stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks
at the market. Think of that. The long night,
the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me
on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah.
But look; my niece is running through a field
calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel
and at the end of my block is a basketball court.
I remember. My color's green. I'm spring.

     —for Walter Aikens

—Ross Gay, "Sorrow Is Not My Name" from Bringing the Shovel Down (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2011).