Regarding springtime, what is there to conclude?
One wing, I fall,
a third of the sum of flying.
Once forsaken, I remain
hidden in the dust, a mortal threshold
unearthed by crying.
Crying, my body turns to dark petals.
And of all the rooms in my childhood,
God was the largest
and most empty.
Of all my playmates,
my buried brother was the quietest,
never giving away my hiding place
where, my mother’s Little-Know-Nothing,
I still await the dawning in my heart
of a name my mother and father never gave me,
my brothers and sisters never called me,
the name foretold
prior to my birth on any tree.
Among the roots, the dead
teem, memory of them
a storied amber risen
in my flesh.
Throughout the leaves, the wind,
unsurrounded, is reciting
the stations of the sea.