Spring
The first sprouts
unfurl from their hollows
Sniffing the air
Checking for the sweet scent
Of springtime—
Have the turnips
Turned down their
Brown beds? Creased
The topsheet of soil?
Even the dead bell
Ruffles its feathers
Shaking the silvered dew of
Cold mornings off and
Lets out a note
So pure and confident
Even the slim bears
Stir in their sleep.
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