Muck smells at first thaw –
as last year’s dying finally does,
fields push flowers into air.
Birds have ground to a halt in this low sky,
the graphite lake brittle below.
Rowboats don’t line up for long.
drifting foam beside its fabric yellows.
Walking the house wall round
I’m beside myself and giddy,
the two of this questioning thumb:
In our leaf shape, we space out;
expecting dreams, hands fill up;
the leaves fall away
and slowly buried, a tree.
So far, in these dimensions,
I’ve cornered distance once.
Now, down an empty road,
I can feel the edge of sight in my feet,
hear space recede between atoms.
Knee deep, I’m lumbering to the door.
There’s no point to a current calendar,
picturesque and at eye level:
Seasons are full of moon,
rocking forward and back on spokes.