Preparations in the weary weather worn,
Fine deliberations in thought grown not in common sod but sewn,
Embroidered yesterday’s or last night in the bedclothes, their messages thrown
About the rooms as socks and remnants of the breath at play—torn
Perhaps, and tattered—a little worse for wear but not abandoned,
Not quite graced with station how much less with purpose on the floors.
As spring pronounces vowels broadly, its consonants are doors
Left not quite closed in hopes that random
Sunbeams, some michievous breeze, or better still, the damp sweet scent
Of trees and odd forgotten hedges stir in later afternoons.
Winter yawns as the tree-veins wake to find within their hour and soon
Upon the arbour, knobs form thence to buds whose walls will rent
In time at last as pilgrim blossoms urging declaration in bulk and natural rhyme
With hope at last while promises expire, replaced by living witnesses to time.