We missed the winter here 

(from incidents overly exuberant

with sun), but now 

that spring has thickened, 

and the snow lies moldering

in windrows, bright crops 

of the declining dark

and futile grey, flurries

still descend from grimy

skies, rocks lie bald

on gardens shorn of birth

or roots, but dressed by

particles of doubt that

the season has disowned,

cold white sleet that ornaments

the pines in passing jewels

and dims the slanting hills

with bleached-out fog,

the season seems reversed

to us, waiting not for dawn

or bloom, but flying backwards

into dearth, the hardness 

and distress that plants blossom

to escape, the despair of earth

and stone, of tundra shorn of

hope or growth, of dirt alone

beneath our feet, ghost meadows

suspended still in the middle

of the mist, but in fact

we flourish in this dismal rout,

this vacant thirst for spore, because

I think we want the world to pause,

to think about it first before 

the rampant leap to fruit and leaf,

to linger here in limbo with the dim

and tarnished land, to lie in indistinct

and vegetative blight, before the rush

to luminous and drowning light.