On the lower slopes
        Dogwoods glow like cold bone
        Redbuds add their insistence on color
        But no heat
        Above them poplars risk their foliage
        Without thought, as if April never lied
        While oaks leave almost nothing to the frost

        Along the ridges and hollows
        Each species accepts spring
        According to its own nature

        I sit on the damp ground
        In clothes the color of leaves
        Striking slate with a stick

        Having known the same desire
        That pulls the tom toward the call
        And having lost a life or two that way myself
        I can afford to be patient
        We are not so different, after all

Copyright © Cy Dillon, 2001.  All Rights Reserved.