the hyacinths are crowning
through the blackloam soil,
just past Eastertide and
the trees blooming into pink clouds
(the crocus, too, and the daffodils and tulip
bulbs bursting through black)
on Birch Street. And still, you
refuse to come to me, the
days double and again
double as the
moon looks down upon her
twin, wreathed, not with
fog, but with the shining
script of what is yet to come
ah, April, you cruellest of months,
making me wait to see your face
swaddled round with
the first linen cloths,
scanning the sky, star-pocked,
for some sign
as the Bronx River flows
swiftly past, overgorged after
the rains, under the arched stone
bridges, past the hospital
carrying the branch broken
from the tree to the ocean-
mother of us all
as I burn, burn daylight
and I wait, and will wait,
to look upon your face
