Careless whispered invocations

Happy May Day -- here's a poem written in February and embedded in that season. It feels cruel to present you with snow on the First of May, but maybe I can write something warmer later, inspired by the day of turning.

Looking back, I see February's fatigue here; maybe that's one reason this wasn't accepted where I submitted it. Or I see a few points for revision, as always...

Anyway. Please don't get mad at me if it snows...



An invocation

call it back
read its soft notation
its flight – not as script –

call it back
in its own small language
of leaping – light – alarm
startle and rest
music of scent

the traces are clear
even while (pour out the salt for snow)
they fill and vanish

call her back
from under this bright lightless crust

let that fox hop
his red legs flags above the snow
beautiful and comic as he is
he will not catch her

nor will she be snared

i am afraid of this
defenceless drift of warm light fur

i am too tired to shout
too bulky to follow her under

you
whom i have given, unasked, for today
a coat of a certain shape
in order to make you visible
and to beg even more of you

please
be what you are
carve this dry cold earth
tunnel out halls, rooms, sinuses
swerves, switchbacks
holes for thought to seep through
nests from which to wake