The quiet country midnight got quieter. You said, “I hear snow,” and turned on the porch light. Carrot: pillow fight of light out the window. Winters passed. I brought you presents. I kept remembering your magic, hearing the deeper silence. Then one spring you sent everything back. Stick.
Now That April’s Here Now That April’s Here
Snow paid attention, left the white pines scarred and the springtime yard rife with life and destruction. Moss hair back from the dead brings the Green Man’s head softly, softly, underfoot right beside the maple root that quotes Sévigné‚ up the budding tree: “Spring is red.”