Lynne Knight

Body in a Dream of Spring

after Monet's View of Argenteuil, Snow

Overnight the snow's blown back
along the fence, baring the field's dull
grasses, so when the villagers walk

the rutted path toward church, they dream
of spring. Most wear crow-black coats
or dresses, but there's one coming

the other way, headed out of town
in a green coat, hands deep
in his pockets though he's free

of all constraint. The villagers greet him
in secret envy of his green coat ways,
then look quickly away as they hurry on

to the sermon, cold travelling up their legs
in defiance of gravity, like unhappiness
that keeps rising. Oh, why can't they

set it down, why must it get out of bed
with them, slip into their clothes, wait
in their mouths like Amen. And why

should that green-coated one go free.
They'll resent him less, come summer—
but snow and cold will make them haul

their dark coats from the attic. Then,
with winter eyes, they'll see him again,
strolling in the opposite direction.

All of them will long to turn and follow.
Next year, they'll promise, holding
their black coats closer, hurrying on.