The spring and I are strangers now, extending hungry glances through fat green stems and the blush of fallen berries— those beloved friends of the pilgrim’s foot. More and more I slip into the soil to read the pages of rock. Retreating to the muddy infinite, I spy the fleshy leviathan, earthworm tonguing a local seed, speaking too slow and old. I press a finger to this empty parenthetical of skull. My hand once thirsted for a pen, now, my mimicry of earth things is exhausted. To hold again the high pearls of the night, budding from a handsome book who once erected my clumsy head and took his nature in my hands. The golden ghost rises over river silt, is strange and shines in higher hospitality. I lean back to receive her glowing lips, that she might breath me. Though here she comes again, among the tender flowers to say, spring forth. I would make a friend of this mind, And again draw nectar from its halo, now dulled of new revolution by my sweet tooth for memory— here, I write letters to the sun.