The greens leaf out again, frilly scribbles
of fan the sky fills in, won back by masquerade,
full of newfangled evidence.
Call it quits, say the uneven stones of the cemetery.
We have not gotten this far by obedience.
The scale of gardens is jungle made weed,
boulders of New England tuned to rubble.
We long for spring to turn on us,
the mockingbird recalling our old allegiances,
all summer the neighbors’ windows barred.
Only winter leaves them naked again.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 35 Number 5, on page 49
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