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.
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