You’re Done
If you’ve spied the tender, mud-
bound shoot—once the day has shown
some faint sign of lengthening—
its twin pokes its promise
from your sleepy, light-deprived
winter mind, and you’re done:
everything yearning, up-leaping
to each fresh sign—buds
plumpening, a turbulence
of birdsong urging them up,
up, the direction of eyes, limbs,
songs, shoots, temps, hands,
light, wings, sap is up.
Winter is up.