We went along a wide dirt track
where signs of habitation hid
among the spring’s swift turn–
the lingering of wood and wires,
of disconnected concrete slabs
and five-step stairs to grassy trails,
neglected, overgrown–among
the turning to the majesty
and luxury of languid summer.

The wind was cool, the leaves were new–
a shower of suspended green
arrested within time above
the world. The waters of the lake
in little lapping waves made bounce
the anchored dock. Under the trees
green ways led into shadow where
cool places that were formerly
inhabited were wild with spring.

The flood of sun that finds its strength,
above the cold and long, bright lakes
with withered cattails all around,
is drowning earth away in green.
The wind’s still sweeping winter out,
the birds a flash in sun above,
full of the wind, their colored vests
pulled tight and their wings scissoring.
How mutable their habitations.

How mutable our habitations.
The transient spring is constantly
renewed by an old covenant
the rainbow guarantees. One day
the rainbow will itself be green
and then will come a better spring
and long, majestic summer too.
How mutable our habitations are,
O Lord of Hosts! How lovely spring.