were coming up through the December ground.
What they were, I don’t know,
perhaps misguided tulips.
And so, like someone
Underground or windowless,
unable to judge the light left,
to see rain strike morning’s shadows,
I forgot the season,
the date, the clouds
that promised an end
to matted leaves, muddy fields.
On a reprehensible street
of porches chaired by tattered sofas,
hedges full of bottles,
as the day shivered,
I found myself
in momentary April
walking oddly
beneath a kited sky.
No one was near to set me straight,
so I walked on, expecting warm rain
and pollen breezes, while broken bits of Christmas
blazed up like Easter.