RETURN
 for my mother

The snowflakes melt in the water's warmth,
Suspended, scattered, lightly strewn
Upon poor Spring, arrived too soon
Along the Seine, among the forms
Of spires, stone and slate.  "This storm
Is like my solitude," the Moon
Imagines, "Empty as a dune
Where Pharoahs sleep, and find it warm."

And so in many silences
Are hieroglyphs, these full of noise
Whose swirling crosses oceans towards
A teeming pond (neighbor to nest)
Where - dancers descending, perfect and poised -
The snowflakes melt in the water's warmth.

          copyright 1982, James B. Chevallier