Late Aubade

—Matthew Buckley Smith

i.m. Jane Pepperdene

When buried spring, in morning, wakes again

all winter’s dreamless night has let remain,


songbirds, returning north, will map in song

a heaven crows have haunted all year long;


the rabbits’ young will graze along a fence

furred with rough vines to slow the owl’s advance;


those buds curled damp against the dawn will glimpse

the automated snuffing of the lamps...

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