The return of spring is when the world returns from the dead
Or – it is so for the black bear
It creeps on its claws towards the mouth
Of the tomb, which the crumbling dirt enclosing all
Caressed the bear as it rested
It would be miraculous for it to come to life
But the immaculate, sterile state of the newborn world
Would be unearthly to the black bear
When the grime was its own closed world for so long
Recollections of the outside leaked in the time since
Perhaps the outside is too clean
Too white in its naive snow
For one so long in the dirt
Or even, that the air is not so fresh
But packed with strife
And noise and human eyes
Is there anything that can force an animal of instinct
To sink, continue, down and still
Under the earth
But awaking again-
Feeling the fur-soft grass beneath paws
Hearing the birds chirping like bells away from daily bullets
Seeing all the other creatures who
In the same place, awaken again year after year
That is what makes it worthwhile
That the black bear’s instincts make it fall and rise
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