Little by little,
the poverty of spring
has become the new look—
first, a young trend;
then, an everyday
reality;
and finally,
a succoring
and revitalizing affect.
The yellows and reds
deep down
in mud's brown,
the bare trees standing frightened
as wrecked umbrellas
in the raw wind.
The sharp and compact
vocabulary of winter
no longer speaks
in a patois we understand.
Now, the same bare wind
sings of a new legend,
in which
waiting
is the next action;
stillness, after all, is
still an offensive maneuver;
is the sound
of a crisis
which has passed.
