It never got warm enough that spring
to smell the fragrance of the blossoms
in the trees,
but every afternoon
like milk over stone, light
poured.
Each lake's face
freckled into mouths
that chatted the sky awake
earlier and earlier each day.
The air was hungry and had nothing
but shadows to eat, so every day,
by noon, every shadow was chewed down
to nothing.
When I went out, I expected to find time for everything
and it was there, ticking
in the trees,
clanging off the ragged skirts
of daffodils,
chiming underground.