A rondel for spring

By Steve Wilson

May 30, 2001

Through reeds as high as our knees we run. Hints of deep red, blue -

the flowers are returning. Winter's giving way. The air,

patient, drifts across the open fields. For months we didn't think to care

if light stayed later. An empty distance held us ... stilled us, too.

Gray sky shaped patterns on the walls. We felt its drowse move through.

Can light be dark, weighted as memory? You steel yourself. Keep unaware.

Through reeds as high as our knees we'd run. Hints of deep red, blue -

the flowers are returning. Winter's giving way. The air

urges our minds toward spring. At the river's bank, we've nothing to do

but take our time. How long since something sat us down - a tree, a tear

in the sky made white by brilliant clouds? Dark falls back, and where

we were is left behind. To be makes sense again. Like children do,

through reeds as high as our knees we'll run. Hints of deep red, blue....