there is not much writing
in the dark being done.
she gets lost in the pose
of chin to hand
the quadrangle of thought
as she searches the sky
outside high windows

spring again
it will be so soon
Everything happens to her
only in springtime or fall
the in between seasons
the not really either's
halfways and lovers undefined
the minglings of death and life
trapped and growing or dying together

she still likes the smell though
That is the nuance to her memories
as the shadings of colour are to sight
even in the city you can tell
when the dark places in the ground
begin to wake and wiggle their roots

all of it will turn green
aspire and live a lifetime in the twisting
short turn of seasons