Februarys

When I am tempest-torn and grief-lorn,
shredded by the weight of my own self
against the spider-silk weft of this heavy world;
when I lose my nerve or head
and begin to bargain with castles I have built –
offer them more grit, more stone, more water,
argue they are not porcelain;
when I look at the moon hidden by the North Coast’s
shower fog, and ask to taxidermize it –
then I turn shore-ways and observe
white chariots riding roughshod over the rocks,
splintering when they reach the sand,
retreating into the seething foam
of Thursday’s storm sea.
and when I want to lay down all I ought to be
and take up what they would make of me,
I think of this, and all the waves are still:
the grass in heaven is stronger than my strongest will.