Somewhere it is always spring—
here, too, perhaps,
within these barren trees.
The thought, the idée fixe
the twig to be
outlasts the snowstorms.
Its double helix symphony
sleeps on in xylem,
unravels in sequestered leaves.
Some seeds refuse to sprout
until a winter has seasoned them,
as cunning monarchs outlive
their enemies.
Earth thaws.
Tendrils reach out
beneath me.
Seed’s urge unjackets me,
soaks me to root in run
through falling rain.
I taste the sky,
limestone and elemental iron,
phosphor and calcium,
inhale the animal sweetness of air,
soak up the sunlight,
open a cotyledon eye,
banish all frost
in bacchanalian riot.
It is time! It is time!
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