Welcome back to the Daily Poem. I'm David Kern, and today is Tuesday, March 22nd, 2022.

Today's poem is by an American poet, essayist, and professor named John Katie.

He was born on December 25th, 1945. So he was born on Christmas Day in 1945 and is an award-winning poet who is also a professor at the University of

Wisconsin, Milwaukee. I wanted to read this poem to you today because it is a spring poem. It's called

the late Wisconsin Spring. And it's a little on the longer side compared to most poems that I read

on this show. So I'm going to get right into it. But if you would like to look up, John Katie, his work is really interesting and

worth checking out. His name is spelled K-O-E-T-H-E, John Katie. I'm going to go ahead and dig right in.

This is the late Wisconsin Spring.

Snow melts into the earth, and a gentle breeze loosens the damp gum wrappers,

the stale leaves left over from autumn, and the dead brown grass.

The sky shakes itself out, and the invisible birds winter put away somewhere return.

The air relaxes. People start to circulate again in twos and threes. The dominant feelings are the blue

sky, and the year. Memories of other seasons in the billowing wind, the light

gradually altering from difficult to clear as a page melts and a photograph develops in the

backyard.

When some men came to tear down the garage across the way the light was still clear, but the salt

intoxication was already dissipating into the atmosphere of constant day April brings between

the isolation and the flowers.

Now the clouds are lighter.

The branches are frosted green and suddenly the season that had seemed so tentative before becomes immediate.

So clear the heart breaks and the vibrant air is laced with crystal wires leading back from hell.

Only the distraction and the exaggerated sense of care here at the heart of spring.

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