Le Quattro Stagioni
The Four Seasons
Spring
Time of illusive
shadblow:
white snow when
snow supposedly has turned
its back on the world.
Yellow time:
forsythia
and daffodil
the sun's tiger-green eyes
through new sycamore leaves.
The skink:
electric fellow
listening for the goldfinch
waiting for the ant's
civilized caravans to return.
Mothers
floating
up:
scent of violets
from ruined earth.
Summer
You would not believe it
if I told you
but I will tell you
anyway.
The light faded,
old fruit
darkened around its
edges.
Rains came pouring:
water from giants
in the sky to the giants
of the earth.
All laughing
at us, at each other,
laughing so hard
their tears cleansed
the still paths
in the garden—
the more still paths
in the soul.
Fall
In dry grasses—
crickets—
brothers to Orpheus.
Geese in pairs.
Their cowed heads
contented, wine-colored.
Late daisies—
fiddle music—
the goldenrod's torches.
A jig for love—
Love me—
Love me not—
Love me.
Winter
Ice forms before we can name it,
although its name is as old as the world.
In the night white fires smolder,
our bodies heating the cold's corners.
Morning light:
squirrels waking to dig
snow.
Chickadees' slow
hammering.
Cardinals' sly crack
opening the chill.
Between snowflakes
the butterfly's heart.
Between snowflakes:
Silence. The night sky.
A human voice remembering.