33

In the rustle of chestnuts, in the foaming earth
filled with dark signs,
in the beat of the heart
like a flock of gulls bursting toward you,
in a smell of moss
in the wall,
in joy rising from fissures,
like water collected in cracks,
at the door of your home, my sister,
spring

spring
spring lords over the land!
And dawn opens wide in the valley.
Only your angels are late.
They give no sign.
They won’t say when.

Perhaps a rider will return.
Perhaps the brother.
In the woods my sister plays
Hopscotch
With the messiah.

34

A tortured forest. Leaves and crown sacrificed
to a violent autumn.
Bare,
against stars of hostile brilliance,
still nurtured tubers of spring.

My home carried its roots
to the stake.
With what –
with what, little sister,
shall we spin and weave the dream
now?