Volta

What worm leaves a trail of milk
on the undersides of leaves, what finger
traces indecipherable names on a plane
of frosted glass? O steady pulse

trickling like sand through perfect halves
of the hourglass— Stalks droop along
the weathered fence: memory of wisteria
where there is now no blue. No shrouds

of periwinkle fall: gorgeous veil
like shreds of indivisible water.
This is how we know something else
is coming: after the fever-burn,
the hands on the clock face start over.
The frozen world breaks into dew.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Thaw.

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