we'd call a tree a fool

who'd give leaf to

january, even if

she spoke a word

of warmth ( a day

or two) or put on

the scent before rain

as perfume;

no thought, but

arms steadier

than a clock's,

and hope sleeps

in memory rings,

those remnants of

last springs and

summer saps.

but who waits, who

has mind and heart?

reason can not uproot

the earth's bent

or the gait she walks,

unconvinced, set in

her ways. the art

of it is lost in

the scale of days,

swallows, syllables

dots along supposed

clocks we wrote

to be unfailing.

there are fronts, but

the truth remains

slow, unwinding

rhythmic winds

of change and

the unchanging.