For almost a year she wrote nothing
but practiced lines he could hear
her whisper when she thought him
long asleep; when that cycle, nearly up,
turned blustery, and seeds of sleet
broadcast across the field
of winter rye in windblown waves,
turning the tree line to intermittent static,
she began, alas, a new translation of spring,
this one with an unremitting acceptance
of the first warm rain, set in.
No comments:
Post a Comment