March marches in, a feral feline – the sturdy
little spruce is covered with snow. Still spruce,
though. Little spruce, let's say your sturdiness
is representative. Of Hobo's steadfast adoration
for his wayward friend. She's gone not-gone;
her dark hair tangled like a Tatar's out of Taurida
thaws a reed beneath his frozen sea-chest. Ahh...
my doe, ray me... direct my vulgar boat-song
toward your distant Zuyder Zee... he mumbles
in his sleep. A drowsy Orpheus, lost in Taigetos.
He sees a winter sunlamp, whose hex-vertices
converge upon a vortex-pinnacle – and melting,
tumble up into a delta-spout (as if four rivers
mingled in one Nile). Now all the rusty oars
of every rower rustle their tremulous tremolos
together, vibrate in unison : as water-spiders
dart and dance upon a pond, the fleet
on swift feet speeds across the sea.
They behold your dark crown, Medea –
your spectrum-collar (Paraclete) –
and round the promontory, into the sunlit wind.
On the crest of that thundering cliff, a modest
monastery dome presides, abides. Maximus
the martyr's bones are buried there. So send
this message to the coastlands, far and wide :
the one who went before (that minor miner
in the gloomy tombs – your mother, father) still
remains, still stands (a spruce-tree in a snowslide).