To the light of February
It seems as though I've awaited your arrival.
You, who appear to be only a name that tells of you
when you are already here.
It seems as though you are summer.
In my eyes you're the high familiar endless summer,
yet with a glint of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals of the mullein fluttering
on the stalks that lean over my broken shadow
across the cracked ground.
But they all know that you have come
--the seed heads of the sage,
the whispering birds,
my beating heart,
with nowhere to hide you
to keep you for later.
You, who fly with them.
You who are neither before nor after.
You who arrived with blue plums,
that have fallen through the night.