In April, the scalp of snow retreats
and the starlings, the robins, and wrens
feed from the bared ground, pecking like hens
the hidden seed and soil. Where strand meets
sanded snowbanks, my footprints
inhabit both terrains: slush and mud,
and these days the cap I wear, and hood,
hide what recedes in me: I wince
when I shouldn't, and cartilage creaks
just jumping a new stream. A beehive
drained of winter begins to dive,
thinned from the maple, then breaks,
the husks of combs split there
like parchment, the texts uneven.
Haloes, I read, are not for heaven,
and they weigh down our shoulders here.
