Awaiting snow, the earth is almost colorless.
Then a brief gleam from the pale fields: a silo
or tool. The highway pretends it will never end
so I follow its wide grey pledge. Windmills rest
motionless or turn slowly. Resisting what? Air
this morning is thin and thought-like. Ice covers
the edges of a pond, but not its center. The brain,
likewise, begins to narrow at speed, searches only,
the road, for its next anticipated creek or hillside.
A Witness tries to explain suffering to me—or something
about a God who loves, who therefore punishes. Injustice
and pain must exist; otherwise, what would be the point
of comfort? There’s a glossy leaflet to take, but I let the dog
pull me away and lie about my name because no language
seems adequate in spring. The sun is more light than warmth,
dangerous the way joy is: like sorrow uncontained. Every bud
threatens a bloom; branches wait for the wind to freeze again.