Cliffs of Spring

The years find a third way through,
And when you say years, mean hours,

Mean life. Nights are gall bones built
From days that dreams built from bones.

The lost are like this. The found
Are worse. Seas of leaves that burst

At dawn, the birds that sing wants
For what kills all to make more.

You know the ways. Your own heart
Thirsts. Spring comes for all. No worst.

The Poem’s Lack of Faith in Its Own Terms

Doubt and fright and how it is
Are why you need the sun’s light

Like a kind of faith, not true,
Not faith in the face of facts,

Just a half faith in the fact
Of this light, its warmth, the scent

Noon draws off dead grass and dirt
By the side of a thin road

Used to get from town to pond.
How like you to drive up hill

To try to get close to us.
We’ll wait. Spring drives up slopes, too.

Now It Is Sung

There’s still some snow,
Some old scraps still
In the pine shades,
On the steep hills.

Who cares what’s next
Who grieves what’s lost
And grieves what’s left
As soon to be

Lost? There’s more next
Than there’s you next.
Weep if you want. Tears,
They say, help you.

No end’s the end.
It starts and starts
And wears you out.
Sing snow. Here’s spring.