Outside, swaddled, bungy-bound, tarped,
from solstice till now her pistons
were seldom called to jump by spark
but for a few short starts
to assure she hadn’t lost her burning passion
she’s been inert— still as our latitude’s will to spring,
buried wheels in snow, wind licking
to lift her skirt.
By laws of spinning things
there’ll be blossoms where she stands.
It’s what the physics of the place demands:
protocols of motion, songs of sun sung
to the accompaniment of a mystery lute,
sounds from nowhere disappearing the snow
calling crows to concert to hear again
the bristle of worms beneath, now mute.