Winter Viii - the Kitchen Cleaning

The torch is raised To the height of an elbow Its flame pronged To the flicker of a pitchfork The sunrise charges over a hill For old man Winter And under this sun on March One The eave troughs of our house Still cling to the grip of winter Growling silver fangs And crying long tears Resisting the pry of the flowering season Finally succumbing Plummeting Through the sponge of snow Below To slip away forever Into the streets steaming Like opened rivers of fish leaping Hooked on lines While chunks of ice Dislodge from corners outside the house Avalanching Loud as silverware drawers in the kitchen Opening and banging shut Makes you turn Look And wonder who is so angry and why Downstairs A boy In a short-sleeved shirt A stoned graveyard digger At the end of my driveway Uncovers the drain And its copper coins buried from autumn And with that iron resurrection The afternoon is engulfed by a rush of waterfalls From rooftops and balconies Banks of snow The whole cliff of the planet Washing away Cleaned to its streams and lakes Some of us Lift our feet Before, we too, the worn and tired Are swept away by this light of spring.