Somewhere, winter is dying
Winter is dying somewhere

We know it is time.
The apple barrel is nearly empty
And I am no longer muffled
by the snow.

I am not sure what to do
when spring comes;
will I know where to step,
will I sink in the grass
or stand upon tender blades
with bleeding feet?

No, but the ground
is soft and the world
is mist and moving
like the cricket. I see the
owl and taste the wild
winds and I know
that rain is the lullaby
of spring.