Grace and Peace to you.
The trees are not waiting, as I am, for spring.
The snowmelt falling without guile
into the brook, why should it be mindful
of dark Atlantic currents, clouds rising and
sweeping within weeks along the steppes?
It’s only dropping with its pure plop
into this black water spinning under the cedars.
The trees are not waiting for spring
or even a sunny day.
They are not patient. They do not know.
They stand, as I am, knee deep in snow
with their little buds in their hands,
attentive to the press of bird or breeze,
or none, upon their limbs
and sing one note at a time
in their vast, unfolding song of praise.
Copyright © Steve Garnaas-Holmes