As when icy illness ends that you never expected   Could possibly end, and the terrified body, enveloped¹
In warm water, reposes², you could kiss every child on the hand,   Every leaf in the forest, every stone of the wall. A low moan escapes
The mouth. Melancholia, the accompanying spirit, is departing with   Her ratty wings and crusted eyes, her suitcase of rocks.
A shy, small creature steps trembling from the brush.