the way the nascent
season teases us—
advances, then retreats;
pronounces,
then repeats—
as if it somehow
gets us off to see
uncertainty made manifest.
This disarrayed mix
of encouraging breezes
and hectoring sleet
must bring to mind
our own haste
and reluctance—
those sides of us
which are not content
with the surety of stasis,
which crave a container
for their own
ambivalence
and find nothing
hotter than the lack
of intent.
