Beautiful Worry
this wan light, spaghetti-thin, uneases
me; it signals the beginning of spring,
risky as birth, when it’s supposed
to induce buds, flowers, leaves, bring
the birds back, a massive project
hugely quixotic, so unlike winter,
a season more probable in its Soviet style
deprivations, spreading night and snow
in equal measure, extreme sandwich
straightforward in its execution.
But this fey light, contracted for so much, I fear
is a bad hire, no guarantor. I worry about its control
over spring, that it all could break apart,
a soprano who misses her high C, or worse,
a priapic tenor who can never stop singing
