when the ribbon is cut, then untied

first slate gray light:
this day does not ask
for this
newness
it is
broken
with ice as
rain it
wants
forgiveness
and then
refuses it
long in the
blond morning hours
it is
formed as an
old shape, a stone, a
stream left cold
for
water has
worked its daily
toil there and
is there no more-
it is
the
landscape
that has always
been
it
holds my
heart
in its cool
depressions- it
holds my heart warm
in its
haunted
grieving air-
perpetual it
allows the hours
to fall here and there,
leaf scattered,
residency
of the vacant street-
waiting for breakfast noon
to unfurl
the promise first suspected
the promise in its eventual
renewal.