The day has dipped it's corner in water -
the colour running in tree fattened mist
without horizon - only pre-covered dusk.
Puddled by an early rainburst the streets
soak into dark stains, bidding quiet
by every passing car. But, the clock
of my heart sees only the unwinding light
and will not yield, this streaked returning.
How subtle now become the sights that interest.
I find myself opening to the commonwealth
that winter closed. The rotten fence,
the lumber stuffed beside the rotting shed,
the thinning whitewash of the fence
it's long dead grain shining from across the road.
I suppose the leafless tree still grows.
I trust the living will take note
of their long dead useful kind
and glow in the liquid light of spring.
I almost heard a blackbird sing today
in stunted aria, to warm the summer cords.
And noticed the streets unfolding
in a very pleasant invite, unhuddled
from their shivered fires, the walls
take of their gentle hues, like cheeks.
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