And so you cry out in the wilderness,
engulfed by silences so thick,
you believe you must drown.
And so you cry out, waiting for - what?
The barely perceptible change
of wave embracing object?
The removal of the final veil?
The eventual return of vices long cherished,
their absence mourned,
or the redemptive pungency of wine?
the smell of grasshopper days must wait,
gravid with patience.
Here are the roots of the tree, dry,
exposed upon winter's riverbank, parched
And so you cry out, waiting
an echo, a dead stop. Here is
boats' bottom, the boundary, the end.
And so you cry out, "The glass must be empty."
This particular vacancy exquisite labyrinth,
patient mandala of season.
And so you wake up
from long sleep, disoriented and frightened
under the whispered benediction
of clouds swollen
Deluge smoothes first cautious fingertip
across waiting floodplain; sky
drags a serpentine tongue
across the belly of the earth,
leaving behind only a scar
which heals too quickly.
It is finally spring.
And so you cry out.