Slow spring


The trees here are still mostly bare,
their infinite fingers of resolute patience.
They are in no hurry. What will come,
will.

South of here it's different, and farther north.
But this is here.

On some twigs the tenderest green
emerges, a different green, and fragile
as new things are.

Without yet the singing, buzzing and sweetness
they gather life in near-freezing wind, bare,
or nearly so.

Sap runs. You can't see it.
Small things underground shift,
and something larger than all this.
Tomorrow is more open than the western sky,
moving.