ATWOOD'S FUGITIVE SPRING

Margaret Atwood
lost herself
in new lilacs
by the woody banks
of the Charles River
on a faceless day
telling us again
of her new projects in words
that as your fingerprints open
from solitude
for ideas in this company
of wellspring poets
arriving like portraits
of metallic hosts
in a metamorphosis of time
to take our shares
into an abolished kingdom
embracing petals
to open us up anything
even nature's thorns
through nature's bird circling
by snow paths of coming back
a taxi rides by the Harvard club
after an award ceremony
with customary worth
bartering for warmth
to enclose your parting glances
by the Evergreen trees in the yard
with an understanding camera
matching up a photograph
of a nameless March at noonday.