Forebode what is about to happen
when spring comes around,
how it twists, out of proportions, the chimes

thawing the frost, vaporising the apparent wetness
gathering on the first few seconds of day—
the cringing sycophants who resist change.

Are you expecting changes on their way?
Water has to leave us. Mists on top
are like haloes of unrelenting spectres

unwilling to map their exit ways,
and always find ways to trail behind
arbitrarily, searching only for grammatical

lexicons to demystify the sphere. But
when air turns into water, what, and how,
can we say anything about what we don’t know?