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 again-

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.