They told me to wait till springtide
before moving beyond the mountain crossing,
with its crevices and steep incline.
I told them Spring was the problem
in the first place. Those smooth, sharkskin
afternoons littering calm, tepid waters
with cast-off carcasses of fresh beginnings.
I’ve done enough fishing for a dozen lives,
without having to plunge in murky depths
again; dragging up seared, auburn leaves
that autumn left behind. I’d rather end
this long journey in the clear glaze 
of winter, while there’s time to trek across
cracked ice. I’ll arrive before the warming thaw
entices me with fragrant clusters
of brightly colored blossoms, and birds and bees
seduce me with their bawdy show. 

— Frank De Canio