Plateau Waking

Change, time of
turning 'round the earth's solar axis, I weave
circles in my study,
in my study, winter body
seated firmly on the floor
beneath your window, under mountain,
on the yellow-sided mountain
where the murmurs of the morning
pause to hear the river growling.
Far below, the ice is breaking
on embankments, on our door.

Far below, the city waking
to the smells of sun returning,
climbing surely up the hillside,
frozen hillside, ice is leading
farther north. I follow, brushes
in my hands and in my pockets,
weaving circles, tracing runs among
the brambles and the thickets.

Farther north, I hear the calling
of the ancient sun returning,
of the streets below me moving
to a more familiar rhythm,
weaving motion over soil,
over pavement, over stone.
The rustle of a million
sets of footprints, city breathing,
beating slowly in the morning,
in the thawing, in the cold.