False Spring, and: Elephants

False Spring

In certain northern cities,

that ting of unexpected thaw,cool pavement, airearthen, diaphanous,

caught up in curtains;something open and unattached—

palmful of dirt, sky

not cloudy or clearbut geometric, a math of sprungwindows, starlings

inked on rooflines, snowsoftening black wireas I walk,

long nights behind.

Elephants

Like sleeping elephants,rocks crowd each otheron a hill in Pennsylvania.

Incongruous I admit,

but then just yesterday I sawlight on Purman Runso broad and pure,

three neighborhood roughsleft their clothes by a rootand walked barefoot

on a gilded pitch of water.

When the light turned I lost them,jittery with laughterin cool banks of shadows.

The rocks on a hill in Pennsylvaniamay not be sacred.They may not be rocks

said to groan by moonlight.

But they rise, dust curlingat their feet, to speakfor what goes unspoken

and mourn a distant land.