And so your husband is safe, and he will
          come soon; he is very near, not far away,
          and it will not be long before he returns.
                                 —The Odyssey, Book XIX

Accepting the shawl of light and
the thought of light and the actual
yellow jonquils nailing the patient ground,
she sits by the window,
                              casting out her thread and
               drawing in her thoughts,
weaving, weaving.

He has come with a clairvoyant eye,
               not the man himself
               but the old desire for him,
                              the prophet,

and cold staggers under a new weight of sunlight.
Time is for her to bear the warmth again
for her mind turns around, turns around and
the trees start pitying with green their own bare sticks,
the clouds start pacing across the unmoved sky,
the violent scent of lilacs starts staining the air.

               Laying aside her thread,
                              she straightens her shoulders
and leans into the terrible gaiety of spring.