Yes, it’s late,
even the winds have died down
and ceased their sighing.

But here I am tapping and thinking
on these senseless keys
that never talk back, never
return needed coaxing,
I’m here and not –

That is,
my body is here
but my heart is missing
as if some spirit cast it away-

after so long,
why would I expect elseways?

It’s only so long
that it could live
seeking some nourishment
and finding none before it
departs like the fall leaves
blown away to fragments.

And that is where it is-
fragments, flakes, forgotten
into the spaces
until spring
brings some bloom
causing you to say,
ah, yes,

I remember that small
piece of saying
that sprung here,
I recall that certain curious
count of words cast in
winter’s stomach,
deposited in spring’s loins.

You’ll see alright.
But by then,
it’s late
and any healing is hosted
else where –
or entirely forgotten too.

See, even pushed through
the cold earth,
doesn’t bring newness to