An iron green still remains to March
and on the lane's steep serpentine off the bluff, the windshield catches in its full stretch the silvered corneas of the Sound.
Under the flowerets such still meek sunlight casts no shadow
and before the pearl-grey, sinuous gaze of the waters to ask whether I should invade my own purposes and sound those misadventures
when, like a new year about to spring energetic in its own blossom, the cherry, the plum, the garden, this.