Poetry
A pale and glistening season is thrown
up into a wall
through delicate fingers
and coned down
by the clenched palms
of a late frost
and then drawn upwards again.
The shape of time
is circular in the season
of buds and blackened new leaves
until suddenly the form unravels
writhing and wild
uncontrolled in it’s new self
making the swooping song of a Blackbird
and small beetles held
before ice crystals
in the sunrise glow.
Spring
2017