It’s today, and the swirls that sing in air
are everywhere, not that I care
or anything…and anyway,
I think I was doing it right,
flying your kites in late autumn,
defying winter jackets,
the branches that caught them
always giving back, like saints
or boys too shy to cackle.
Just forgive ungardenable men
who don’t like trailing hair, or joy;
your faculties might still employ
some taste of an unspent spring.
O my, what are those little darting things that sing?
Now silence on slabs,
smart lip and tongue to be canned
for locals piloting their summer boats.
I hope for you, and hope the most
to see our brothers’ choir
quiet, wrestling by the sea.
Though in all probability,
considering time’s desire to deceive
itself and you, and them and me,
that just won’t happen.
so I take from the lowest shelf
one lowly heart to contain
these half-felt, half-sister pleas…
To what purpose? For whom?
Remember—you too begged forth this life
from the dark-drenched womb.
Don’t cry for what seems to have come too soon.