The white flare of
spring's first crocus
extinguishes itself
as time's song is
elevated where
absence comes full
to reign. To assign
desire to another
is madness, despite
I hear high winds
in distant trees
and the spread of
pollen overcoming
in its permeation
the quiet sanity of
chronology whose
integers discount
dream's full pain.
Ears are made to
hear illusion
and whatever truth
it carries: That is
why it has so many
folds. Like the wood
of trees that
grows in layers
around itself, from
inside out, hearing
flowers and one
then knows the body
is not supported
by its skeleton, but
by the scar of
a lightning strike
made invisible,
along with the sound
of the sap of
a whirlpool's
endless roar
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