-This poem reflects on spring as an ancient memory within the land, a quiet return to rhythms the earth has always known.
The field lies quiet after rain,
dark soil holding the touch of light,
and under every rooted thing,
some older knowing keeps its watch.
The maple lifts its patient arms,
the creek resumes its silver thought,
the hill receives the tender green,
as if it has done so always.
No hand instructs the seeds to wake,
no voice directs the birds to turn,
yet branch and furrow, nest and stone,
move gently toward the season’s will.
The earth remembers how to rise,
how to soften, how to sing,
and in its faithful turning back,
the world becomes itself again.