Speak to me, I am listening

Speak to me I am listening, dreaming of daytime
With fresh snow dripping over a green-tipped bud.
Like the sage I am listening, talk with me.
Can you find the figure in the ground?

New spring is eating the fleeting footnotes!
Why is the ibid not quite the same as last time?
Why is there a space after the last quotation?
Is there no center line no passing lane, no stop and starting over?

Why waste the daylight brooding over last year’s bundle
huddled in a sidewalk corner
frozen maybe in the night wind
covered maybe with a snow blanket.

It is a spirit thing I know it, but how can I pull over?
Not even a mist to quite pin down those cirrus skyway lanes.
Oh I do know where they go; I’ve been there once before.
I know all about the territory,

Days blending in the linoleum kitchen floor
With their long aprons and smelling of bleach
Taking the back stairs down to the fruit room
Looking for Oregon cherries.