Frost Heaves

They were broken, broken,
so broken by the winter;
but roads were not the only things that suffered:
our own loves too, and friends' friends
and family; broken, ended,
heaved by frost and then let go
in the treacherous melt, salted wounds
that crumbled into nothing. In the parking lot
someone stood a warning post in the sinkhole:
don't drive here, you'll fall. One more piece of evidence.
Things fail; they fatigue, and we tire with them,
each blow weakening until our theme is only
how can we sustain? What exactly are we waiting for?

I will answer, says the echo memory.
I will answer in the language of a sudden scent
on a wind that promises languor. We are waiting for
the great unlocking;
we are waiting for our shoulders finally to fall.
We are waiting for the day we stand outside, shirtsleeved,
letting the breeze and sun dispute,
and feel the warm liquidity of tears that wash
what used to be frozen into the lively mud.
We are waiting for the frogs to sing
at nightfall.

March 13 2014