end of winter
hope is germinating
denying that the air is still
I should be the one
to tell you about moonlight
falling on the grave
where you lay in the darkness,
and the winter wind blowing.
I am impatient with these branches, this light.
The sky, however blue, intrudes.
Because I’ve begun to see
there is something else I must do,
I can’t quite catch the rhythm
of days I moved well to in other winters.
The steeple tree
was cut down, the one that daybreak
used to guild–that fervor of birds and cherubim
subdued. Drought has dulled
many a green blade.
I know a different need has begun
to cast its line out from me into
a place unknown, I reach
for a silence almost present,
elusive among my heartbeats.
My apologies to all those who read the first posting of this–I accidentally left out a line which has since been edited back in. I am usually very careful with others’ poetry, and it was not my intention to disrupt the meaning or flow of this excellent poem.