The sun falls like a silk canopy,
Draping itself over the pines,
Dripping black gloss on the crow,
Teasing the frost crystals
Into liquid. Those droplets,
Glinting like jewels,
Do not know the world
Has ended. They never
will.
The creek
Across the road bubbles,
Wild with duckweed,
Dissolving like an amber wafer,
A thin slate fossil cracking
At the seams in this light—
This sun. Earth softens like
A sponge, too saturated
To hold blood. Spring
Turns and unwraps itself.
iii.
The white sweep of fresh linen
On the sky is like a cleaned
Sickbed. No more ill air
Congested with heat. Blue
Is poured out with the sky’s
Right arm—heavenly marble.
The firmament gleams, fresh
And polished: a bleached sink,
Iced lemonade. Soon grey
Patterns will worm their way in.
Inscrutable messages creep through.
You will prowl the blank face of it,
Just to learn the bars of your cage.
The chord holds—a minor
Triad. It holds steady,
Like a mirror of ice in
A dream half-forgotten.
And the world rolls on.