idle tears of fractal grey

i. when weather had a hierarchy

one might think that the tubular rivulets

would bring a kind of silver exurberance,

driven downward by an eastern mist so cold-

a washed forgetting to force away
the gray urge to seek a fetal grave

in the crushes, quilts, and bays.

downward, yes, these graphs of life

that mock, with only lurches,
a quirky stream that conquers all-
vertigo merges on the liquid pane:

sash tombs that quaintly slam
the dreamy fluff of merely ermine.

this crown is hard to fathom.

ii. now and then can tango

not a missing of the past,
but only what it meant
on aging sheets of blue then,
and now that now is now.

outside the ash-framed plane,
a season of yellow diffidence
framed by current daffodils
and clusters of purple hyacinths,
exists in a time that is neither then nor now.

it is possible to watch this twice removed,
in a subtle kind of trickery-
a blur of blue that nets the eye:

the window streaked with gnat buffets,
a certain proof of lonely primes-

or recovered views that weep in rhyme.

the separate streams make one,
eventually and inevitably,
but why does it take so long?