Of course! Spring.
It jumps to mind–a forgotten name.
The spit-shined coin of Spring
turns up just where you had left it.
One morning you walk along
a sheeny fence at field’s edge
watching the cows munch
your jacket is still on its peg.
Suddenly unhunched cranes
drizzle their blue tassels
in warmer marsh.
Softening lumps of glacier drip dangled
from pine tips. Things have
woken from the pools
happy to be devoured.
The neighborhood’s voices
like goldfinches through tree fingers
quickening with resin. The sun rosins
his bow with saffron pollen, tunes the birds, smears muddy roads
in spilt honey.
Spring is shaking your elbow in the morning,
or throwing rocks
at your window.
It arrives like your cousin fresh from a growth spurt
with her ankles showing,
the first ant claiming the arctic
of the kitchen counter.