A kind of counter-
blossoming, diversionary,doomed, and like
the needle with its dropof blood a little
too transparently inlove with doom, takes
issue with the season: Not(the serviceberry bright
with explanation) not(the redbud unspooling
its silks) I know I've readthe book but not (the lilac,
the larch) quite yet, I stillhave one more card to
play. Beholda six-hour wonder: six
new inches bedecking therailing, the bench, the top
of the circular table likea risen cake. The saplings
made (who little thoughtwhat beauty weighs) to bow
before their elders.The moment bears more
than the usual signs of its owndemise, but isn't that
the bravery? Builton nothing but the self-
same knots of airand ice. Already
the lip of it riddledwith flaws, a sort
of vascular lesion thatbetokens—what? betokens
the gathering returnto elementals. (She
was frightenedfor a minute, who had
planned to be so calm.)A dripline scoring
the edge of the walk.The cotton batting blown
against the screen begunto pill and molt. (Who
clothed them out ofmercy in the skins
of beasts.) And evenas the last of the
lightness continuesto fall, the seepage
underneath has gainedmomentum. (So that
there must have been adeath before
the death we call thefirst or what became
of them, the oneswhose skins were taken.)
Now the more-of-casting-backward-than-of-
forward part, which musthave happened while I wasn't
looking or was lookingat the skinning knives. I think
I'll call this mercy too.