Be languorous in your return, o spring,
For I’ve been nestled in the winter’s cuff
And crave the quiet of its slumberous muff
In which my core is uncontested king.
So far there are but slips of what you bring
In this pied March—no April bounties yet—
But when you burst, I would not feel regret
For subtler tunes my soul has still to sing.
Each day, I peer into the sphinxlike mask
Of greyness, trying to plumb its fuzzy play
And find within its riddlings a way
To answer questions I, like it, would ask.
Vagueness is pliable; let dimness be
The empty sketchpad of my inner search
Where I may scribble with no glaring smirch
The fundamentals that I sense, not see.
The whirling world of bloom will have its day,
And I will come to love it when it comes,
Reveling in its filling-ins, its hums—
But I would let life pause now . . . if it may.