—In the pause between
No, wait.
Between winter and the time you greeted it:
plum blossoms. Plum blossoms everywhere!
Always in this season there was this
black self-conscious eye above the landscape,
one feverishly plucked, forties eyebrow
arched like a fermata in music
watching the modern variations in pink
all the way down Euclid Avenue—then
dizzy and with what hope you managed your predicament:
not to lose your shadow to the shared
delirium of each tree.
One day it came to you.
Spring cried as you turned the numb soil.
Earthworms twisted warm cuneiform bodies, arching up
in something—if it was not delight
it was so much like delight—
and a rusty robin landed slowly as an old biplane,
shook the branch, and all
the blossoms fell
on you deliciously it was not sorrow
then you knew for the bird as for you the world
split open was stunningly beautiful
though being alive was nearly impossible—