Strange Forms with Fancy

by Michael Anania 

trial and error — how is

it we manage these days,

all touch withheld from us?

 

the cactus on my walk is

opening its waxen buds,

my mock orange is in full

 

bloom; at some distance

peonies have pushed up

through winter’s crust

 

glory-of-the-snow is

snowed in once again,

wind flowers and scilla;

 

distances marked by

this season’s urgencies,

a handful of spring air,

 

my dear, these changes

we think of as time are

directionless, purpose,

 

an invention we have

agreed to, the area

seen under the green

curve of leaf and stem,

cloud and cloud shadow

moving in their own ways;

 

a fistful of microbes,

a deep breath counted

out now; all that seems

 

to be starting up again,

the long evenings’ bright

reach ends, its ending

 

a meteor shower, seen

only as it extinguishes

itself, ourselves, embers

 

as well, quietly separate

beneath the distant slow

burning fires of the stars