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.
[LAG-other-response date=”02 20 2014″ url=”https://www.vianegativa.us/2014/02/thaw-6/” title=”Via Negativa: Thaw”]