by Tricia Knoll
The trout lilies
sprout leaves with spots
and nod tiny gold flowers
under an April snow
which mushed down the daffodils,
the jonquils with pink flutes and white lace,
slender stalks that cannot stand up
to downfall snow.
Whether blueberry bush
or Japanese cherry, the buds
fatten as slowly as possible
under the watch of curious eyes.
I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups. Put away the cleats.
Then I hit my temple bell, hung
from the maple, waiting for me when
I feel deeply. And I feel deeply these tides,
turns of surprise unwinding what comes next.
It may be snow. Or drought. Almost two years
since I’ve seen you, seasons I cannot count
on one hand anymore. The spring coiling
tighter as each days stretches longer.
The relentless wheels, too-tight springs,
the clock struck dumb, your little bird
carved in pine caught in its door. Having
to watch the parade, not be of it.