Or, Not Yet Beginning Again

How to begin—
without holding
without refusing
anything offered
that might be true…

In this age of rejection—
where anyone can cite a border
as proof of vigilance,
as specter of fortification,
the timid integrity of independent states.

How to reconcile two opposing forces—
the past with its gritted, yellow teeth
and the pretty, vacant future,
all doe-eyed and misbegotten,
wishing for better vision, if not transcendence.

The bone chill of early January
stands as referee,
holding the floor with two arms
wide, while the combatants
leer and curse the other.

Yet meanwhile, underfoot—
the frost tempers, congeals
and disperses all earthly energies,
nourishing what needs feeding,
decomposing the detritus
of former seasons’ toil.

And so, again—
how to begin again,
and again and again and again
until the crocuses point toward Spring,
and the mulberries unfasten from their sockets.

Until the mourning’s pictures draw themselves
and the old malingering questions
cease to flatter
or provoke.