A Later Spring

Of the hard questions already asked
implicit to the turning of experience,
related answers don‘t appear. Maybe
at best, diversions past sides of rock
silence, and towards nothing about
the isochronal seasons? Song birds
that can sound wonderful louche bundles
of cherry blossoms with the petals falling
to where the fey fragrance decomposes
beneath a weight on the sun, a night rain,
infusing the grist of the soil while we are
moving onward, hesitations far behind.