On what is known as Good Friday
a snowstorm rolled into town, encasing
the major freeways and I did not mind,
extra compiled minutes to drive in the car
listening to Sibelius over a cusp, orchestrated
drama one might think larger than astronomy.
In summer months, the tradeoff in downed windows,
earfuls of folly wind, bass stringed currents
or six gambles that concede vibration, simple, while
waving to agreeable strollers that befriend Electra.
Here, maybe, is where you might expect the poem
to say something like how on Easter Sunday
all that unexpected snow began to melt and the
beneficent shoots of the daffodils were revealed.
And this could close there, a segue
into the allusion of change. Spring.
Whether that happened doesn’t matter,
because it will garner back to a foot.
If you still think it should, I guess
it would be as a nice completion,
but the best pieces of love come
from broken seamless inherencies.
Outside always will be such things
as transitional sedentary objects
which are untied contents, the neighbors
gardening bric-a-brac, maybe composed
before the return of the robins, maybe not,
the birdhouse perched ready for a lost wheel
that will crawl with morning glories, or doves,
over stone Buddhas, dancing frogs, warm greens,
the cat or dog receiving the sought for attention,
which makes me think this is a better way to end,
which is not, thank god, really an ending anymore
than trickles of life resemble warped gang planks
outstretched above the limitless sky-blue oceans.