March Zen

Tell me,
when the last icy star
cartwheels its way
to watery rest
deep in the March grass,
does the blade bow
under the weight
or out of respect?

Even the common brick
or plank of wood,
in time, cries out
in its own voice

But the man,
startled in his private chair,
remains asleep, thinks instead
that something’s afoot
in the upper rooms
of his empty house

-Dennis King