Will the bees coax the world to bloom?
Pink-blue faint skies rub energetically
at the edge of the landscape,
aching to mate with a bush of
feathery green buds.

Too soon. Still March. Try again later.

The road is promising though
with mailbox tongues hanging open,
also gasping for the flowering
and swallowing the letter
that commands current residents
to Leap! To be Free!
to smell the roses
hidden so discreetly in the future.

We are abuzz with what is
Almost Here.

Spring.

Solstice is near and an owl

sees everything that moves.

The deer graze so slowly

through the deep snow.

Coming in my direction.

I do not breathe.

A giant bird flies the path 

of a red and white arrow

and crosses the road.

We are thinking of the

twenty children tonight.

A cradle hangs above the trees,

a milky, white, crescent moon

moist with clouds.

I know what I see and I see

the unrocked moon 

which I cannot reach

to comfort.

When the pit is done, and abandoned
the people will no longer think
clearly because their grief will have become
greater than any other sensibility.

They will gather rusted fragments
of metallic debris and haul them
to the edge of the pit.

Without ceremony, prayer or drum
the outdoor grills, cell phones and cars
tumble to the lowest ledges,
some resting in shallow water.

Then the people will wait, to see
if these bits will serve as seeds and grow
back the watershed, the mountain’s spine,
eagle, bear, healing plant and water.

It is very quiet here, by the pit
where they wait.

Today I am so brave.
I will go out and meet
the earth, follow
the warm pattern of light across
the white forest floor, careful not to step
on shadows that criss-cross
the back of mother spring.

What is ever green is breathing
ever tenderly, lifting and falling.  
And the shadows breathe too.
I have seen a single tall plant
sway like this, independent of wind,
waved as if someone were hiding in the grasses
whose only job was to announce
the location of one splendid, milky green stem.

Soon there will be a roar.
Birch trees will top themselves
in green explosions.
The dense mass of summer wind
will arrive in the clearing with the power
of a million animated leaves behind it.
Stars will stop staring,
find their voices, and arrange
themselves into Constellation Summer.
Everyone can feel it coming.
Today you turn to the window
and wonder what has caught
your eye.

It is the breath of spring.
The people in their city beds and the
the bears in their dens moan in their sleep
because of it.

Out the window at the top of a ridge walk
three sun brightened deer, deer that live
also in the upside down globe of my eyes,

busy righting everything so as not to worry
me and have my feet in the clouds.

Too late for that correction.

My delight is with blue sky where the tree tops
search for food and squint white clouds
in color-burning-out light hover in brilliance.
It is not even spring but the secret is out too
and the snow that falls now
is from the branches.

We hoped for the melt but it was too sudden.
The forest yielding its cover of snow
took us by surprise and we were unwilling
voyeurs of exposed, fallen limbs
and defenseless patches of wet earth.

Like picking up a magazine and finding that someone
had filled out the quiz, “How **** are you?”
And you know that person
and you can never tell them that you also know
their score.
So we hoped again, this time for spring
to hurry, to rush in with leaves
and cover it all back up again,
to ease our discomfort.  

Nightfall offered a softer view.
One lamp in the front room spilled
generous pools of light outside
which for some hours dressed
the bare earth and trees
and let the forest
appear hushed and secure
the way it was before.

But the deer, beyond the light
pick their way on muddy ground.
They search for footing
with cautious, slender legs
and each step is courage
so of course, they will find spring
even in the dark,
step by step.

He was a cat everyone loved.
A retriever who loved to be vacuumed
and held like an infant child.
Before he died, his brother
curled up close and groomed him,
even with no response.

Still warm and soft, we buried him
with a bowl and some fresh grass,
something to throw up in the next life.
Such a little grave, dug that morning.
It did not seem right
to dig a grave for a living thing.

Now the light is long and gold and stretches,
cat-like, across the dew damp street and grass.
It matches the changing maples.
Wind blows. Birds land. Inside the house is stillness.
  
Everywhere I touch old places,
the flat white bedspread.
No, it does not answer.
The room where we held you as you died.
The pillow you slept on for those difficult last days.
The colored towel left next to it. 
Is that dark shape my beloved friend?
No. It is nothing.

Nothing is everywhere in this house today.
Nothing is curled up on the chair.
Nothing meows to be taken outside.
Nothing wants breakfast.
Nothing is my dear small friend.
 
In the back yard, I pick two apples from the tree.
The branch lifts without the weight.
One apple on your grave. A silly gift.
Cats don't eat apples.
One thrown hard across the street,
too far for you to chase.