The Unspoken Vow of the Spring

In a taut spiral, a future is wrapped,
metallic waiting, a whisper of thrust.
No external force has ever unclasped it,
no hand has encircled its promise.
It is a fixed point, immobile, compact,
a steel nerve that never once vibrated.

Dormant are the leaps, the rapid returns,
the energy compressed in a knot of steel.
Without snap, without daring gestures,
it remains guardian of silent struggle.
Its function, hidden within its being,
an echo of what might come to pass.

Not a lament is its state of art,
but an interrogation of motion that was not.
A mute question, in every part of it,
to the promised act that never came again.
And there persists, intact, alone and pure,
its latent virtue, eternal conspiracy.