Did Spring relent her blossoming sending

hoarfrost late on unripened cherries?

Did she fertilize her stillborn bushels,

caramelize her green bulbs like lollipops

so bloom and harvest could become one garden

of unpicked crops and unrung peal of bells?

She did not lament with rainshower that month

the loss of a single orchard of my cherries,

only she must carry on her season

in abundance, with nothing left undone.

 

I am haunted by conclusions antecedent,

a pastoral and Protestant Wordsworth

laudanumed like grandpas in their rockers,

whose Prelude begat only retirement,

haunted by lovers still charged in their remanence

yet, parted by ordinary distance,

must love from afar their amorous loadstone

not with magnetism but reminiscence.

 

I must believe that it was Winter’s work

left unfinished, his icy signature

undoing the first flowers of April

like addenda to his seasonal revisions,

and must believe also in prolific Schubert,

curly-headed Schwämmerl made of failures,

who tallied the double bar-line of his Eighth

and returned the quill to its dark inkwell

saying, “No, I will die first, and finish it afterwards.”

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