The spring is a destiny of shape, poised for vernacular, and we watch
the new water. The spring is also time sent back, calling, lifting
something fresh before further sport inspires death sequence or
illiterate runs of breaking. Language lives on the course of spring,
without the pace for struggling. This spring, our time, is easy, nothing
but news. The spring from which the potion rises seems born of tidal
resolve. Yet language, in spring, isn't easy, is only a messenger
sometimes, while time fractures and we make a love of it. Of our time,
that is. You can place rocks on the gravesite, or flowers, or a fine
worsted step into whatever reverie fills the meeting. Thinking back,
then, you will register the fraught and open, even as the terms succumb
to buying and selling. Yet that commodious effort doesn't dissolve all
thought, and language lives its own spring. Spring then is all that
becomes the minute and smaller: time or a piece of something that
stretches out into an infinite religion of test and form. This is a
spring of marking, and the words aren't so much clear as featured. Look
at them, as they engage in phrases. The document has human form and
seeming. We'll try again and again, because the spring is early and
spring is into the air. All this banter will collapse into something
more precious still, and your arms and my arms will enfold.
