Simple finger sketches, pushes the dirt of a hushed garden;
soundless repose, footsteps slow over fleshy grasses.
Pine needles and clay bricks seal this box from the parking lot,
in turn protected by a chain-link fence from trains that pass.
The spring wind blows inconsistently, yowling through the pine trees;
snowflakes have migrated north again, oaks and maple stand bare yet,
and who will be moved into dance? Certainly not the hairs that hide
behind bricks or temporary houses, in cement, permanently set.
Which is life, reality or the way it is supposed to be? The rain
in gutters or as it imbues the darkening stubble on my face
with texture within a texture, a spreading essence in the contours;
God in the storms or in the walls built for mute escape?
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