The trees with their deep roots know.
The birds who have migrated far see things.
If you think it the other way round, that is your learning,
but: they who know the deep darknesses,
who have threaded those maps, they have seen
already the new life rising in you,
the stone-freed tomb opened,
and they have burst into applause,
and that is what all this is,
the improbable fling and flaunt of spring,
unabashed unfurling of ferns in their nakedness,
outrageous display of every twig's finery,
outlandish vim of blossom and feather
and song flitting among the black trunks—
it's all celebration of what they've seen in you.
The cycle of life is natural, deserving no congratulations,
but this divine uprising in you is astonishing,
and inspires them no end.
The brave little shoots shoving up
through soil, through stone, insistently, yes,
they're green with envy of the unfolding in you.
The whole woods are astounded,
standing on their chairs clapping and shouting,
throwing bouquets of flowers to you.
Even at night you can hardly sleep
for the roar of the crowd of stars, cheering and cheering.
—May 3, 2019