-This poem reflects on the charged threshold before leaves open, when spring gathers itself in buds and the whole world seems poised on the verge of becoming.
The branches hold their breath in light,
each bud a small unspoken yes,
a folded green not opened yet,
but full of shape, and nearly song.
The wind moves through the waiting limbs,
and every tip seems touched with thought,
as if the tree has come this far,
and pauses at the edge of change.
Nothing is finished, nothing spread,
no shade has gathered on the ground,
yet all the air is rich with next,
with tender forms about to rise.
This is the beauty just before,
the moment promise learns its name,
when what has slept begins to lean,
toward leaf, toward light, toward becoming.