Through the blossom-gate


and quite before the acid leaf unfurls into its meaning
we are subjected to the play of light,
working on our necessity to speak out

into a flowering. It is not yet warm  and
already the sun is playing at dragging up

and displaying those unwanted words,
elucidatory and garish in their babblement.

Its almost necessary to cut them
at their source. That well-spring

is a tree-wounded gash. The birds
disagree in their illuminatory chatter as
they may,

and cast all their circumspections to the breeze.