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.