and I shudder because the sky is white   a low cloud cover    whiskering the hills
which does not really influence the outcome      if there are robins singing      the
scent of a fresh Spring morning and there was a day when your face was smiling
a day when stone walls failed to demarcate the lines between revelation   and the
whiteness of low clouds birthing themselves   from mud-ugly snowbanks   and I
wondered if you could manage  the transition of a purple crocus  making its sing
ular way through Winter snow    and the next thing you know     a whole herd of
gaudy daffodils bent on imposing their yellow absolutism on all the world   such
an amazing word, “absolutism,”      I think I am in love     with its syllable sound
counting five and never stopping to look back     at the poor chick-a-dees singing
chick-a-dee chick-a-dee chick-a-dee   lives spent in a New England snow let us
now sing praise to the birds of the morning   bent on their whisker-white sky     I
take your face between my hands   kiss  kiss   pretend that birdsong can say it all.