Sunset, and the rains are over. Stout birds sing.

There are no children here and none visit.

The body is its own quarry. An eye

turns inward, notes of Bach fly alone.

A contagious spring reigns in the garden.

Crescendo of purple clouds, lime green leaflets,

bawdy weather unsuited to the mood.

Soon, in the dark, the old depression

lifts. Leo Tolstoy’s Nikita

wakes in the sleigh beneath his master

to live twenty more years as laborer.

To measure with his steps how many straws

it takes to warm a horse in winter.

Three toes gone from each foot, still he walks.