Midwinter spring and sunlight strains
beyond terracotta rooftops: the year
is already poised in the balance
as if because we lack faith it would go,
become ceaseless cumulo-nimbus,
a drowning of prospects in cotton wool.
Except no. Because this is something
others have known from on old:
seasons hint and need placation
like unexpected loves which depend
on linden branches in a park,
like these assertions that all will be well,
like a ripeness and a readiness
which here, amongst the red and white,
