Spring flung itself on her like a song,
a remembering, a salvaged piece of sea
glass spun right round to scattered sand.
She’s gotta hand it to the moon, broken
open too soon, shattered all pretty crescent
loose into that inky sky. Orion’s got a way
with words tonight, unbelted truth blown
through pinpricked promise, burned out
wishes spent on silence. Yesterday, she
might have listened to his whisper-wanded
flow. But today she’s got a long long way
to go, and no fading comet to follow.