VARIATIONS
III. Spring
The dogwood
lights up the day.
The April moon
flakes the night.
Birds, suddenly,
are a multitude
The flowers are ravined
by bees, the fruit blossoms
are thrown to the ground, the wind
the rain forces everything. Noise-
even the night is drummed
by whippoorwills, and we get
as busy, we plow, we move,
we break out, we love. The secret
which got lost neither hides
nor reveals itself, it shows forth
tokens. And we rush
to catch up. The body
whips the soul. In its great desire
it demands the elixir
In the roar of spring,
transmutations. Envy
drags herself off. The fault of the body and the soul
-that they are not one-
the matutinal clock clangs
and singleness: we salute you
season of no bungling
