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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