-This poem follows the return of movement as meltwater threads through the thawing world and quietly carries spring forward.
From roof edge, from branch tip, from buried stone,
the water finds its way again,
slipping in threads through thawing grass,
gathering where the ground gives in.
It moves along the rutted road,
through ditches dark with winter leaves,
a bright unease, a silver tongue,
speaking to roots no eye can see.
The field is streaked with mirrored light,
small runnels braid the furrowed earth,
and every drop that leaves the ice
returns the season to itself.
No blossom breaks the air just yet,
no choir of green has filled the hill,
but motion has entered the sleeping land,
and nothing still can keep it still.