What if the sun comes out
And the new furrows do not look smeared?
This is April, and the sumach candles
Have guttered long ago.
The crows in the twisted apple limbs
Are as moveless and dark.
Drops on the wires, cold cheeks,
The mist, the long snorts, silence…
The horses will steam when the sun comes;
Crows, go, shrieking.
Another bird now; sweet…
Pitiful life, useless,
On a useless planet
If any voice called, I would hear?
It has been the same before.
Soil glistens, the furrow rolls, sleet shifts, brightens.