This milky end-of-winter light, so meek
and mild. Rhymes with the tentative cheeps
of a stray goldfinch – with the moderate steeps
of yellow limestone banks, the calm, hop-along-
arches of St. Anthony bridge (Minneapolis).
Memorial Day. A picnic, for my birthday, by
Minnehaha. Hunting arrowheads, feathered away
between Permian shale fossil-shards...
Now, in wavering weather, when bashful shoots
bend up from shambles of old glacier-ground,
like drowsy Hobo or nocturnal Blackstone
I'd sound shy backwaters, shady roots –
everything muffled under thunderous day.
Follow along some disused railroad line
past snow-patch, junk-sprawl, bantam pine
– the haywired-hopeful backyard disarray
of each untutored spring (lank anthem).
Down the forsaken track to far Byzantium
(phantom freight-train, hooting hesychasm)
where an old monk with Blackstone-problem
formulates apt measure for the whole
concord. A child's accordion, wheezing
and piping like a sunny froth of sparrows...
each flighty, light-quickened, franciscan soul
floats tethered to the milky limestone floor.
A lingering, hovering breeze from the ravine
upholds the slant wings of an unknown falcon-
dove (signalling mercy-seat in semaphore)
and Hobo's somehow grateful for the destitution
of his empty station. The tremulous light
is enough for him, on the old wooden boards
and down the tracks. Freedom is light. Light.