Early April and there’s a light-footed feel.
Nothing troubles from the darkened underbrush,
and the sun’s late beauty daubs
the green wood with yellows.
As if for you, a thrush rills, blue pieces of silver
that will dry like watermarks. Almost delicate,
the hour around seven, a blown-glass bowl,
edgeless and honed, made bespoke.
Yet somewhere inside this evening hour,
a man refutes: his fist
will not burden the kitchen table.
A wintered heart, hard as a knot of holly.