An Almost Spring Night

   
Like memories bathed in starlight,
only waiting for spring;
and moths
that envy light touches
on the firefly's feathery
wings, there is careful time now
to tread.
To wait and to listen
to all that is said
and written,
and read and done,
for winter has been more than inches
too long
for the vapour trail
that rides on the wind.
It has hidden all soft and beautiful
things beneath an acrid blanket
of never, and left all souls
longing
for a forever that will shine in the
settling dust. Silence has never
been a friend of trust, and nails can
only scrape
at rusted edges
without it.
It leaves a heart
room to wriggle and doubt it's foundations
and the words it would sing;
and the vicious wasps just enough
soft
flesh to sting; without smile or gracious invite
...give me a pretty book and I will write
all my gentle self in, and pay
a penny
to the keeper;
take a shovel to the pit
of my stomach
and dig deeper, or plunge
an empty hand there;
touch has never been so bare and honest
as here you might find,
nor so open and near, to reach and caress,
you could run your fingers through a thousand
of the best
of my kind
and discover
there is nothing so special here,
much less the turning of a season;
ask me no questions
and I can give you no reasons
nor take any of yours to refine,
we can only take down
whatever walls hold spring back,
one crumbling brick at a time.