by Jean Van Loon
Last fall’s grass—
tall, brown, brittle.
Apple tree weighted
with waxwings— winter
bohemians nibbling at bits
still bound to leafless branches.
Everything wide open
waiting.
Something whispers through dry blades
— steady smoothness of not-wind—
and I know what it is
that pulses in curved crossing,
like me, feeling spring on its skin
and I, for once, welcoming.
— from Juniper Volume 4, Issue 2