Brink

Petals flayed by ice,
foliage like scales
the rose and rainbow trout
shining in brittle dawn.
the ice cracks
mud egresses the crusty white ground,
a linea nigra on the belly of the earth.

a sign of two fish coil the frozen branches
locked in infinity,
crossing paths
from the melancholic cold of an east coast winter
to the wakeful but well rested
Spring
unfurls like curling horns,
the lion, the lamb, the ram,
mythical effigies on an in-your-face
stroll along the riverbed
putting 30 degree dreams to sleep,
the world turning on its back and waiting
for new breath to create a breeze.

the quail came like comedians
or chameleons
turning towards each other and turning colors,
turning tricks, turning water into wine,
or something sacrilege before the 3-day rise.
the march was mad and wild,
showering a birth that
rolled open the foliage
warmed the brittle dawn
erupted the white ground
with metamorphic molten humming, quietly,
under the mount for months;
it stirred, fluttering in the smoky mist and pools,
readying to light up the night with a scintillating cry,
tender and unequivocally human.


e. chayes