Sun on the window chair, the noise of flies
Striking at rigid glass. Another spring.
Hard against the stronger glass I bang
seeking what is outside – I recognize
light, shape and color true enough to seize,
the season tangible and happening.
Glass will not break; there is no opening.
After its rage is done, each insect dies.

Summer tomorrow. Through the hidden glass
a greater heat, imperishable light.
My tight cage jerls me back. But who’ll forget
such promises? Again. Effort must force
some recompense. Again then. Let me sing:
even the buzz of flies defines the spring.