Two Troilets


Steve Wilson

May Cold Front

Anticipating summer, we

sense late chill: spring again

that subtle swims along the warm,

anticipating summer. We

hold to it, hold to this green word

the fields give – stubborn still,

anticipating. Summer, we

sense late chill. Spring again.



This dirt I’d mole down, reaching

roots, or troweling through.

This dirt I’d mole — down, reaching

thoughts past thought, all desire

for wind, for brambles: turns

this. Dirt I’d mole down, reaching

roots or troweling, through.