Another Spring

There are no images here
In the solitude, only
The night and its stars which are Relationships rather than
Images. Shifting darkness
Strains of feeling, lines of force, Webs of thoughts
no images

Only night and time aging
The night in its darkness, just Motion in space in the dark.
It is a night full of darkness
And space, and stars, and the hours Going by
and time going by

And the night growing old, and all The webs
and nets, of relationships Changing
and it is Spring night
In Provence, here where I am

And under the half moon the almond Buds are ready to burst.
Before noon The blossoms will open
here by This peach colored house amongst The steel gray pines and the gray Limestone cliffs.
Now the buds

Are round and tight in the dim Moonlight,
in the night that Stretches on forever
that had
No beginning, and that willNever end,
and it doesn’t mean Anything.

It isn’t an image of Something.
It isn’t a symbol of Something else.
It is just an Almond tree, in the night, by The house, in the woods, by
A vineyard, under the setting
Half moon, in Provence, in the Beginning of another Spring.