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.
