one day

in the afterglow of the remove
in the silence of simmered things
after
nine hundred & twelve days
a blackbird came calling
what season was it?
winter with frost thick upon old glass windows?
are blackbirds here come winter?
what was the air like?
was it the neutrality of spring, not cold nor warm but laced with storm's forecast?
blackbirds are thick in spring
falling
not the hot closeness of summer
not the smell of apple-pressed-autumn
falling
winter or spring then
or some undiscovered season
perhaps
one that belongs to the lost and found
and blackbirds
calling
fallling
a tumbling bite/bliss declared submission
landing
to self
a rounded larimer blue self
quivering to darkness & light
what damn season was it?
brightness of day illuminating
innocence transforming
seen
heard within the
faceted amber understanding born of...
ah! spring!
with its forecast of thunder & surrender
spring then
a blackbird calling
calling
falling
into
diamond-blue-self
discovered
uncovered beneath the translucent sinking moon of morning
tell me blackbird

why do I remember this hour so?