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May Morning

 Deep into spring, winter is hanging on.
Bitter and skillful in his hopelessness, he stays alive in every shady place, starving along the Mediterranean: angry to see the glittering sea-pale boulder alive with lizards green as Judas leaves.
Winter is hanging on.
He still believes.
He tries to catch a lizard by the shoulder.
One olive tree below Grottaglie welcomes the winter into noontime shade, and talks as softly as Pythagoras.
Be still, be patient, I can hear him say, cradling in his arms the wounded head, letting the sunlight touch the savage face.

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