Did I Say

This time of year I kneel on my jacket. The ice

is almost solid. The groaning has ended. There is

an inch of fresh snow. A bush has turned to glass.

I take my left glove off, finger by finger.

There is a pocket in which I wait. I break

a twig. I pull at the bark. I give myself

to the first flower, something streaked with pink

and three dark leaves as a kind of foil, something

just two or three inches tall. As soon as it melts

the snow will turn to water; I will scrape

the ground a little; I will clean it. 1am

cloven; I was split in two; I opened

because of the water, because of the seed. I thought

the knowledge had started-for half a day. I thought

the light was in one place, the dark in another.

I reached my left hand out; I let it tremble.

I looked at the sun, it was a kind of dandelion,

though smaller, it was a snowdrop, one of the leaves

was shaped like a goat, we stood and butted, I was

one side, he was the other, I ate the horns,

I ate the flattened eyes; light will cover

darkness-in a day or two-the flower

will be a snowdrop- did I say that?-the petals,

they are like rays. I walked for an hour struggling

with this and that; the split is harder and harder

every year. I wrenched my shoulder-did I say that

too? Did I say I was winged and scattered?