New Work

Signs of Spring

For some, it’s a robin.
For him, a spider in the sink.

A yellow birch down
across the lane, white slush
a hand’s breadth deep,
floating on the mud.

These holes in the ground,
these smallest of caves,
dwellings of the meek: voles,
yellow-spotted salamanders.

The rewards of raking appear
because our heads are bowed.

A patch of blue sky
opening in the clouds,
warm wind in urgent gusts.

Across the woods, beginning
on the tips of a maple tree
by the pond, a single red filament
appears like a wound.

Somewhere nearby
the she-bear lifts her head.