Heat Goes Out Walking in the Cold

K. A. Hays

It seems possible, and I've been told, 

 that even the dying, who don't mean to, 

 stow at the ribs yellow mint, 

 at the liver the waft 

 of split tomatoes, and April's peas 

 wire and tendril up, unruly, 

 at the backs of the eyes. 

The old story: Decembers, 

 fiddleheads unwind 

 in a cat's worn foot pads --

 and far in a man's deaf ear 

 tug the brown wade 

 and gold peeping 

 of May ponds. 

Hard to believe, most days, 

 that under the ice-tilted walks, 

 plantain aches yellowly, hums 

 in August air. Or that even 

 in the spine of a mother 

 who grieves for her child 

 wakes dame's rocket, unwilled, 

 gangly, soon 

 a sapling with the tough ears 

 of elephants. 

 That's the sapling the dead 

 blaze into, summer walking in winter. 

 Yes. In wind-wracked limbs, 

 green wick, thaw the core.