i sidestep pools of
sunlight on wet loam
to the overflowing sluices,
send the gate crashing down
dispersing the translucent
green blood of the river.
the stones are thankless,
obdurate (you have to be
in a country such as this)
under the thrust of twisting,
turning roots.
i see the re-emergence of
bucolic pines,
sieves of sunshine,
and the green here is rushed,
the wind insists it moves
in one direction.
on days like this you can
chase tintinnabular blue jays,
stay out till the sun's last
ray

where last month's heliacal
rising was cold and final,
the branches grated against
the sky as it slid into
its greek, gray horizon.
something bare, something
you could pick your teeth
with. clouds hanging from
package string like low
nocuous rhythms,
the moon above them
tumbling around the earth,
a sadist in the snow
who peers and peers
yet does nothing.
i do not think of
carved rock attempting pietas,
nor the fish in stopped
streams,
but shaking off the
blizzards still

however, the warmth today
assuages somewhat the
battered land of my skin
(for the first time
in a long time);
and it feels good