May comes on slowly, rising
from under the hundred tones
of purple and grey that sing
still of cold and sleep, throwing
them off deliberately
--this is not crcumspection
or reluctance-- like a girl
aroused now who has chosen
to cross from her room and sit
among the grownups at table.
Green patches swirl in her long
skirt. On the floor her bare feet
press damp prints that disappear
behind her. Later the wind
will rise and call her to dance
out on the ground in the grass,
dreaming she too is a tree
among the other trees. Spring
peepers deciding to take
up their bells will sing all night
like a huge sleigh departing
forever. Dutchman’s britches,
trout lillies and magenta
trilliums elect to hide
together at the edges
of the woods. A kingfisher
has picked out the river bend
he will fish till fall. Water
settled in the fields has come
to life and is expiring
into the air like a sigh.
Tiny seeds in their furrows
and drills lie down side by side,
remembering last year’s growth,
a silent chorus, straining
to invent the slender arms
they will extend to a sun
they barely can imagine.

Originally published in
ELF