This year too

by Marge Piercy

Every year I survive I am thrilled
by the bursting of leaves from little
nubs on wood, apparently dead
as the leg of a table.

How quickly they unfurl from tongues
of mice to fans that catch each breeze
leaves that fill my eyes, the windows
the wood, myriad shades of green.

There is something in me that opens
with them, that craves green.  Then
too I want to fill my eyes with blooms
of crab, of dogwood, of cherry and pear.

Spring makes so many promises
we’re desperate to believe.

— from Juniper Volume 3, Issue 3