Return

We saw a blood-red moon
dangle over an arena awash with blue
light, and all I could think of was how
pain is a kind of weather, waiting
to pass through us as we count
the days to the season's turn.
Spears of wild garlic begin
to push up at the edge of the yard.
Soon, the pruned limbs of the fig
will recover, and start to push green
clusters out. Some mornings, the light
arrives like a sentence completely formed
for a state you still can't properly
articulate. Does it say endure, does it say 
you are more than a passing thought, more 
than the slow movement of color under ice?