of April light;
o, contagious gusts
of bright blithe wind;
o, silvery ghosts
of sighing rain; o, oval
of repetition, over
and again:
please forgive
this outdated mode
of address;
please forget
the specificity of things.
Use these lexical bits
of straw and grass
to feather me a nest;
weave me a fence
to pen in my doubt;
o, do your best
to grow me a heart
that is jacketed
in the genius
of a diamond—that is,
harder
than the land
which surrounds it, yet
even more
delicately faceted.
