From a stupor we unroll. April breaks her book
open and the conte begins again. Our hero, flute-footed,
arrives drunk from the party at Poussin’s; he says
he’s forgotten the particulars but Pan was dancing
with the lovely Bare. The great god was hoofing it
with nakedness herself. In a phrase: Intent.
His cloven limbs boreal and blunt against the Alchemical dew
of spring. Cold unlimbering. The deer running
between Cedar and lake. Easing and delicate,
their obdurate hidings in sinew, shadow, and speed.
They grip, with me, the sensual earth of abandoned celebrations.

That’s a long way around the matter. Circumlocution is our
vernacular. The ice is off the lake. The wind is warm,
coy, and willing — it comes in layers. Salome’s
translucent veils dropping, her kiss burning on the
prophet’s lips, his faith dissolving in the azure scent
of her hair. Does all that make the winter’s leaving
easier to bear? Does translation make the season’s
glyph any less clear than all those running deer?

In Egypt there were 3 seasons: the Flood, the Emergence,
and the Harvest. Akhet, Pert, and Shemut. There is nothing
universal about falling leaves or Hyacinths poking thru the snow.
There is a tribe in New Guinea with seasons called: Smoke,
Drizzle and Rain. The first season of the Comanche marked
the rising grasses. Somewhere north the Inuit keep faith
with the Bottom Snow. At the end of their year the Cherokee
burn their trash, clean their longhouses, and forgive all sins
except murder. They fast for 3 days then make a new fire
from friction. With the cosmos so corrected they dance
and feast for 3 days and then make babies & have visions.

From a stupor we unroll. April places her petard
on the door and the conte begins again.

Maybe in Greek you can say time
is something real
like tides and sand, trees dividing
light. Maybe
in Sioux snows will do
and months can be when raccoons
wake from a thaw and
when geese lay eggs in the reeds. 

But after picking cherries and a summer rain
I imagine the moment
in an alphabet of no fixed line.
I see the sweet meat bloom
from blackness to eternity
with nothing in between. 

Maybe in the tongue
which gave us our mind
we can measure frequencies like
fruit and water.
But in my wet shirt and heavy from eating,
in the dreaming that comes from being full,
I keep trying to get it back –
the animal grace of picking,
fear of the thunder,
les temps perdu.