Uncrossed stations of the season
Silence Wearing Its Sneakers
The greenhouse sails the eucalyptus across
the meadow where a spring of sun leaks light
along a drying copse of withered lupine.
The shadow of a hawk hunts everything
it touches, snakes gophering on polished
vinyl bellies, young rabbits testing the world.
Somehow the new season has come in
a side door left ajar since last year,
a door so very few of us ever notice.
Winter candles cease chanting hopeless
hymns of hope, flowers wax worryless
obscuring black wicks and spent wishes.
In the deep channel, ships pass iced
in light, disturbing water’s reluctant
forgiveness when the mist hides all.
A starflung moon buffs a sleeping
owl’s wing and brushes the still limb,
silence wearing its feathered sneakers.
Do not concern yourself with day,
with night, the uncrossed stations of
the season for it matters little now.
Stand instead and take the air that
is given you, the greenhouse sailing
across the meadow, for it is enough.
May 11, 2011