A poem by Daniel Tobin:
This morning in surprising light
last fall’s fisted cluster of leaves
appeared earth’s new growth, delicate
as baby’s breath, the blaze of lace
on a wedding gown’s frilly cuff,
as if bare limbs could change to sleeves
that waver in the wind’s chill scarf,
the eye, unseasonable, gleans
as wish—rose blossoms from gun-scopes,
a world more real in sibilance
than scorn—but mindful of a stain
like the mote at the root of a glance:
this sky’s gray, unbroken stone,
the burden of tomorrow’s snow.
There are many things going on in this poem; I’m not sure what they all are yet, but I know they’re there. “Rose blossoms from gun-scopes” reminds me both of Banksy and of this monument in Managua of old guns used in the revolution, all melted down and made into a kind of blob/wall. There’s a melted tank there, too.
But moments are fleeting (or is that redundant?), and we always have something to do tomorrow.