At first it could be
A granite cliff but
If we look closely,
Isn't --only a fallen tree.
What we see in
Adjusted distance, moss,
Mass, is black wood
Over grass,
which seems
To rotate from
Simple plane to
Lemniscate, and at
Its tip retain spheres
Of recent rain.
In neither garden
Nor brain can we
Find any better
Signs for infinity.
How did it get so cold?
It can't be I have got
More sensitive,
Which leaves Earth
Farther from its sun --
One and all need to
Get out and push!
Where rain-rotted tree-
Leaves fell and froze,
Bulbs are rising now
And those lift to bring
This show of spring:
We clap our calloused
Hands, our hurting
Hands --intermission
Complete-- and return
To our seats.
