sonnet 11

Some thin and wind-blown drops slash down the pane
And carve Etruscan letters in the frost -
no, mist now; minutes earlier, our plane's
High-altitude Siberian crystals lost
Consistency in Lombardy's low clouds.
The barren fields still grey, the trees still dead
We'd left a world of cherry blossoms, crowds
Of trees lined up along Narita's edge.
Twelve hours' flight, but we've gone back in time
To just before the blossoming of spring.
I'm dazed by sleeplessness, my mind
On seasons of my own; their passing stings.
Spring bloom's long past since last I saw Milan.
And many summer years have come and gone.