How High

I

How high the gull resting on the wind of the receding tide
How strong the wind westing on the eve of December
At night a dense fog breaks
How sharp the pieces of a winter's night.

II

Can Spring follow?
Even with season's turning,
the night grows longer.
The line of a shadow eclipsing the cycles
runs across your brow.
Nature hesitates to the breaking of the clay.

III

Spring denies what Winter said
Seasons wheel us home to bed
The flowers blaze
You lag behind
And let the children
run ahead.