|
 When it flutters.
When something could happen.
That flash of remembering.
Spring is the sign for this, only the sign.
But the bones believe in winter,
settling in.
The heart forgets, and like a dumb
mutt goes on forgetting
what she's stowed.
The layering of ice
on snow confuses her.
She's like an anthropologist
sifting Byzantium for Troy.
The bones are laundered well.
By the time the final strata
melts, they're just the skeleton
of soil and turf.
What spring is, in itself,
a trail of scent.
(Another sign.)
|
