The Ideal Season or The Idol Season

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Spring to come. Coy in sunlit mornings.
We are still waiting for the opening of things

undecided, spare and rigid, a little coat of fur.
Your trees have ached for months

without the stigmata, the flowering pattern.
The flesh of the fruit will gently rot.

A teacup of time, is all I ask of you.
Come out and see, everything same but different.

Kneel in the clay, let it eat at your knuckles.
We are planting the upstairs flowers to dampen

the downstairs bones. Listen to them creak.
The plentiful rain will sleep elsewhere.