Winter has a word for starting over

written with the patience of shadow

between shattered stalks of corn

cut down and carted off,

shadows stenciled row after row,

this sign for starting over, violet

almost beginning to glow.

 

Maybe you were impatient—
some say obsessed—
with the idea of seasons

changing the orchards
of Provence, galaxies
of blossoms lit

from within, without
shadow: one ethereal
moment, twisted branches

eclipsed by the splendor
they bear. At dusk
you’d return to your room

and light a pipe beside
an almond branch that time
or desire induced to bloom.

 

They arrive astride a wagon piled high:
melons filled with seed, squash swelling
like a mother come to term,

gourds stretching taut skins,
Turk’s turban flagrant
as gypsies—less a store

than a kind of rite, this pageant
earth brought forth
among dying vines.

It’s all for sale save bales
of hay that mistake cold rain
for the beginning of spring

and sprout beside the girl,
cheeks tinged by chill air,
who guards the till.