and muted, like the root that digs
a deep exclusive quiet clay
this winter room perennial
grips iron-hard the stowaway
the whisk of branch in still-life, bare
- until the unstrung harp is sprung -
will catch what wings should happen there;
next turn the winter room undone
for ‘round it comes, the mountain large,
that ever does long the heaving:
a light grown wide, a yawning flame
whose fire calls out for the leaving
a drawing from the well once more,
the reeving slipped by sleight of hand,
and bound beyond the half-closed door,
Spring-loaded goes the leaving...
