And who wouldn’t in the redux of spring steer
clear of disappointed, more or less useless,

you in your dumb cape, no bravado, more wick
than burn? Painting your nails to attract fancy

birds, but only two doves on the grass bored-
whacko. What is the point of this much green,

dart of finch easy on the eyes waiting all day
for more rain? You don’t know next,

sitting in your mangy robe, orderly pink ribs
of chenille, still considering two roads,

their hazard of weeds, anhedonic chimes.
Maybe it isn’t the other or this, but living

in between that you’ve required.
No more excruciating, no more you impaled

on sticks demanding answers, just capitulation,
a little letting go. It is something,

this year of alone, a Ceylon shawl at your neck,
a slight urge to eat, snug inside with your

books and fires. Will you not see the force
of violets, wild amaryllis, sword ferns blown

all directions? Dress yourself. A whole prairie
looms there, plush, beside itself.