Winter's End

J. V. Meade

This day's anarchy of wind giving back
Thaw to piers
Left three fish in a terrible pasture
Of rock.
My lungs, folded for winter, ballooned
At the sun's
Slow falling into an odor of chain.

Then the gaunt horizons lifted to a gull
Threading together
Blue bladders of air which, burst, rained
Long silence. Yet,
Kept rusty as seed within the circle of an eye
Each thing seen
Takes fire toward the fields of spring.
                                       J. Y. MEADE