Dishabille, as though the snows

were a deep, quiet thought to be

thrown off. So, the landscape devises

its own umlaut, picks up stones

for the express purpose of turning

them, placing them back. Is this

what the ruby-throated believed

it was returning to? These bare

limbs like a poignant remark? Raw

ruts where someone has driven

recklessly across? The spirits

are getting ready to plow, but it will

take some time: everything has been

put away wet. The crocus with bent

neck as though beholden—

The difficulty of deciding what to cast

the eyes on first. Pools rimed

with the germ of small, loud frogs.

Or the ridge humped against the stars,

lost in thought, unfinished work.