March 28, 2018
You may sense a strange lightness
inside your bones. Unseen, life
is rising. Unheard, earth hums.
And so it comes,
the imperceptible turn
when winter tips to early spring.
First it stirs.
It seeps through roots.
It creeps on marbled salamander feet.
It emerges from burrows,
arises from mud,
ascends into shifting winds.
It slithers onto shallow rocks,
peers from gaps in mossy logs,
rustles under leaf litter.
It chitters from trees,
trills from swamps,
and peeps from vernal pools.
It shivers, and saucer magnolias bloom,
pears and cherries wear blossoms of snow,
and redbuds slip into lavender lace.
It smiles, and forsythia shine,
each bush a burst of golden stars
in a firmament of baby green leaves.
It laughs, and daffodils dance again.
They sway to the slipstreams of speeding cars
and swirl in the cleft of exit ramps.
And in the rhythms of wind and light
the breath of Earth, the dance of life.
American toads in wetland, February 16, 2018: