Revision of Sleep

This winter’s unexceptional in its decay
the miscanthus has ceased its flagrant waltz,
and from the garden a golem
of dry grass rises. A single leaf dallies
in the sweet gum tree, and a crow,
like Rhadamanthus calls: Fall!

This time of deprivation I am used to.
I’ve found a trick for it:
when the seed lies underground,
before its maggot roots gnaw
deep to corrupt the earth with hope,
lie still: do not desire.

But this unexceptional season
won’t be stilled: the germ turns,
restless in its bed and dreams
of greatness, parting quadrants
of summer stars with irascible limbs.

I am struck awake by the cold bite
of your not-quite promises.
Buried in my silence, arms
of longing burrow beneath
the wet oak leaves.

You go again. The door closes.
I stand by the door exactly where
I saw you last. And for one slow
moment, I breathe the May air.

-Kitty Yanson