Winter's End

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