You hear the wind chasing your dreams
through the leaves
of your promenade,
blind valleys of your breath.
Ritual and denial snarl and guard dandelion fields
of Spring's easy
grace.
Daffodils in the park, in the rain. Like
tomorrow.

But you know they're not over yet--
as long as wild geese fly in formation,
bringing back their shadows passing
through your eyes. And when your heart is full
of holes, you wear a little holiness like a crown
of thorns;
thunderbolts of pain
you have traversed to survive,
all these things you have built grievances brick
by brick into castles with moats filled with creatures that frightened
you into stone.
You survey your kingdom with Medusa eyes.

And you fall
a part

like mountains of ash,
and the rain
w
a shes you

of
even
that.