All night, tree-lash,
marionette spider, bulged shadow
dancing shapes of torqued limbs against the window.
April, in his iron crown, leans on a nimbus,
widens half-hail payloads against our shingles.
Groaned arguments of rain icemelt
through oaken curls. The ten plagues of sleet
are rehearsing in the hedge, darkening
their moans into spirituals. Something tries
to escape from my pen: a black translation.
And afterward, in peeking moon
the slapped leaflets convalesce
like new crystal thrust up from a cavern–
and thriving, neat as print.