Ephemeral spring

The trees stand
straighter today
or is it just our spirit?
The sun shines brighter
and longer like
a solstice of sorts.
It is our homecoming.
A return to life we knew
once and then forbade.
The hands that play music
we know are all ephemeral.
Every tableau now a vanitas
this spring, a passing whim
not an eternal promise
an ending, a beginning,
perhaps somewhere in between.
We are kneading the dough of
freedom as it swells,
Grapes fermenting into wine
people into memories
tragedies into anxieties
as also every sunrise into
endless hope.