Generator

.
the generator outside,
swaddled, bungy-bound and tarped

from solstice till now her pistons
were seldom called to jump from spark

but for a few short starts
to make sure she hadn’t lost her burning will
she’s been inert
(still as our latitude’s will to spring)
now buried wheels in snow, wind licking
to lift her skirt

there’ll be blossoms where she stands
by the law of spinning things
it’s what the physics of the place demands:

its laws of motion, its songs of the sun sung
to the accompaniment of an improbable lute,
sound out of nowhere disappearing the snow

the wheel of our generator calling crows to its concert
to listen again for the bristle of worms now mute
.

Jim Culleny
3/25/13

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