Soft Star-Spangled Story

Gleams out at me – a few degrees
of difference – this subtly altered
angle of the sun: what glows a month
beyond the solstice starts to tell its soft
star-spangled story: just a hint, just now:
as if just off the bow of an emerging

dawn-white dory – small fishing boat:
a speck on the horizon: ushering in
little rushes, breaths of life in light:
touched by some faint glory: beyond
the bite of cold seductive death
embraced by Winter night – and now,

just now, a slight bright evanescent
welcome: fresh, awake: not seasonally
torn, or worn – and still, of course,
not even close to warm: but here’s,
unsinkably, the thing. It’s not
unthinkable there’ll be a Spring.



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