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
and cast all their circumspections to the breeze.