Spring: Up on the Ridge

Every April

my rational winter brain,

is sent packing by spring light.

My body seems to wish to sift the world solo.

Skin gathers courage, gut relaxes,

sinews tighten and become hopeful,

lungs let the air caress them,

muscles find their natural rhythms.

Every year this sharply angled light

Re-sculpts details scoured from my synapses

by frigid winter: moss in the riverbed

stands straight up under pounding white water;

wood frogs that swim just under the surface

are translucent amber; the spathe

of the skunk cabbage arches tenderly

over its spadix: mantled Virgin

cradles shining Child.

On tiptoe

on this slab of slick granite that still leaks winter,

holding onto a young alder, I can just glimpse

a slice of distant river where

spring light scatters.

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