the tidal basin blooms in rain
and all metallic surface waits
in suspended chemistry, water
bringing years in patience; it will
all rust given time.
it is easy to walk these paths and imagine
motion-captured; paintings asleep under
gentle light, the tender museum promise held
in brick buildings, trapping classic in
architecture, open imperial spaces worn green
as april draws its height.
the river changes.
it froths in a thousand patterns, and none of them
remember the one before.