Spring as your walk, your shoes
having lost their toes, your skirts
in midair in flaunt in cellophane,
within tapestries you waltz –
the Louvre in your bed, Monet
your Papa
We have met in winter in dream
amid embers amid hope’s
threadbare, why did you not come
to free the finches’ gold? To blue
the sky’s stringed instruments –
that music born of soft and
smacking of beauty at every turn
Spring in your green fame, light
as fluff and born of wish, how
the tango is a lope in winter where
you are not, none, nothing and
my all