i would have shown you the meadow today;
frost turned the grass to wastes of grey
made its blades stand sentinel and straight,
made the lock stick on the kissing gate
made the sky melt in a sea of pink
and gentle blue, that made me think
of skin pigment and childhood sleep;
of circles rippling on a creek;
even the oxbow lake froze, hard,
a sheen of broken mirror shard;
even the swans seemed confused,
seem to lose
that elegance of the neck, the spine-
the chapel bells chimed nine
as i left; i thought perhaps
their hands had frozen over, time elapsed;
i would have shown you this, and more;
i would have, but i did not, for
it was only the care of a winter day,
yes; only care of winter; only wastes of grey.
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