Spring Song on Ile de Chien

Something close to spirit--
a word, perhaps,
or lavender dripping in the wind
or the eremite leaf
that tips the limb
and points conspicuously to Easter.

Our words are sometimes soft,
sometimes glisten,
sting like medusae
unrooted by a murdering wave
and roll southward drowning
towards the leeching sand:

Unsung protoplasm.
vein and tentacle undulating
in the island sun.

So to the terrified child
who hardens at the words:
tender, we will say,
hopeless
dying by seconds--
Their residue is beauty,
silver shining underfoot,
slow and ephemerally hot.

R Joseph Hoffmann
Harvard University, 1978