lxxxxix.

the hard buds line the branches,

late--the air melted, 

already, and rushes across

the concrete, through the avenues,

and circles by the steps,

this year, spring clutches close

watches gamely, but

huddles like the snow's still

down, firmly

waiting to release its hold

on itself, some wild logic

driven down from the mountains

to catch the catch, 

and turn it, clasping, flung 

over the basin