Sometime, when the snow has melted
and the bare roots of the tree
show dark against the dry dead grass...
sometime, when the first flower
crops on a green stem...
that time will open an iron gateway
in the darkened stone wall
black with mold and dead ivy.
Sometime, when the yellow chrysanthemum
grows again in the sunlight beside the walkway
and the cat struts along the ridgepole of the roof,
that time will tell a riddle about a wall
of one thousand stories
held together with mud and gravel
and the roots of ivy, ferns and moss.
A wall that fences off nothing, stands there
in the middle of a field without reason, an insane wall
balancing a roof above a gate on two tall pillars
cut each from a single stone, a hollow roof
where swallows nest in April.
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