The sun is shining. Winter’s amnesia warms
the river rock and coaxes birds into the
field to pick at last year’s husks.

It is hard to think of all that landscape dead,
veins rooted in the merciless stony soil.
Easier to believe it sleeps with us in the
wintering watch.

The trees with their long wooden memories
stretch out the first green shoots of a
season all but forgotten in icy footsteps.

Cracked fingers, with their long fleshy memories,
smooth over in anticipation. Mountain Barberry
thorns will slit the same crease, and remind me
of the season to come.