the tidal basin blooms in rain

and all metallic surface waits

in suspended chemistry, water

bringing years in patience; it will

all rust given time.

it is easy to walk these paths and imagine

motion-captured; paintings asleep under

gentle light, the tender museum promise held

in brick buildings, trapping classic in

architecture, open imperial spaces worn green

as april draws its height.

the river changes.

it froths in a thousand patterns, and none of them

remember the one before.