Confusion

Confusion 

That’s the thing felt 

Between longing and clarity;

It’s also a useful moment 

To sort the fine green pine needles that smell lovely, 

From the grass that used to be here, old and dry;

And, to search for a piece of flint

In the little bits of gravel.

I am uncertain 

If there are any more early spring promises in these woods

Yet I think

There must be, since the late snow has melted into little rivulets and is running down the muddy hillside

Like a sprinter with baton in hand,

Pushing all energy

Into the next moment. 

So let us begin. 

Let us then stop. 

Oh, let us wonder awhile

We must divinate some forecast for ourselves with our necks craned upward,

Regardless of a clear or clouded sky, 

Let us be terrified and delighted that we have found ourselves in the impasse, looking for the way.