Late March

The air was wet from the night before.
A cool damp had been spread
across the floor like a thin layer of glaze.
But it wasn't shiny—
that floor probably never had been.

Even when it was laid anew,
surly the fresh boards
were cut with a dry axe.
Who knew how long ago that was.
The rings that encircled the knots
and the fraying grain had stopped
telling their own story long ago.

More than just the damp could be
seen on those dark oak planks.
A dusting of seeds and fluff seemed
to have been strewn across them.
It was as if someone had taken an
enormous bouquet of dandelions,
with heads of fuzz and put it against
the howling wind.

Some of these white, weightless balls
lay flat against the ground.
While the others danced around
the nearly bare circular room.
Spinning and whirling, some
hovered close to the ground
while other bits flew to the top
of the tower.

And then there were some that had escaped
from the room altogether.
After all, they really hadn't
been dropped within the space
by some hidden hand.
Nor had they risen from the floor
boards by the distant hum
beneath them. The snow had
fluttered in from the deep
Gothic windows slated against
the shaky walls.

Unlike the snow fluff,
the seeds had been dropped there,
in that room. They had fallen from
a bag and rolled into the crevices of
the floor.