 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
Great light, sudden and short,
that pretends to be April.
We know the liar, of course,
by the way he whistles,
as the clouds scud as if
to flee, and the eaves
call out "Pretender!"
Further south, though, birds
begin to turn their heads
back, as if pulled toward
where they have been, sun
on the invisible compass,
buds on the dogwood stems
so small they seem a dew,
remnant, yet to be shaken
by the movement of those
asleep with uneasy dreams
that all involve returning.