Mirror of spring, the sky at morning yields
Its solitudes and clouds to unseen fields
As if we always knew some other place.
Analysis is tricky. At six or so
The light sweeps up in an arpeggio
I cannot hear. Leafage floods the grass.
The light sweeps up and the church bells listen,
As the day cries out and the heart would listen,
But will not suffer beauty, fearing grace.
Chill, the night comes riding its long wires.
They pass and double through my hands and head
Among the dismantled souls and sunflowers.
In tall bare trees a small flock cowers,
Shifting like a word that can’t be said.