The green volume
April is soft green and spiders.
The wind has its green voice back,
Alphabet of letters all looking alike
And green gravediggers burying
The brown memories
Before they can be missed.
Flowers set upon each other
Like dogs or wolves we’ve not seen
Since first in love we glimpsed
A world to taste and tear apart.
Meanwhile in yet to happen May
All green darkens like a banker’s visor
As sun slants beyond a high Wednesday
Afternoon window. Counting coin for June.
The other May’s the underside of maple,
Adding dimension, staying light, twisting
Minutes, filling the green volume.