It was
time that was
the tenderness—eden, as it is
       in need of
and tolerating no history—thus no tracks
of conventionalism in our shared patched boot
and oversoul pasts—just new snow, crossed through
like uncommon winter birds do—making paths invisible
but to few
But too few
continue—I've started to
think differently of nests
needs and webs. It's inevitable
I guess—& yet resplendent
isn't it? Always
a shocking testament
to what? Home? I don't know
how paradise found its parade
but I love it—patterns in steam
spinning off the Tivoli 
brewing tower yesterday—eye beams 
       into steel
                      greylit grey
    glisten      glistening

Copyright © 2014 by Eryn Green. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on March 28, 2014. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.