Northward, Up


dawn edges its way under the
eyelids and gently shakes
the senses — 
 
each morning I come here
to the still lake of the page,
where migratory flocks of
poems have gathered to
wait out the winter — 
 
in this rippling stillness
we wait, displaced, together
 
seeking the first signs of
reawakening — the marsh-
mosquito is the ambassador
of heat
 
when she arrives, these
poems will take flight,
a faint and guiding
magnetism draws them
northward, up
 
to where prairie grasses
now buried under snows,
will once again emerge and
curtsy to the wind,
scattering seeds demurely
as they bend
 
then I will gaze across
the empty surface of the
lake, pack up my hunger
for other words for love
 
my empty lunch, and
coffee in a bottle, and
follow them, northward, up
 
hoping to arrive by the
night of the last glow,
the final fire burning off
the ends of winter,
 
arrive in time to clean the
grate, compose an alphabet
of ashes into stars