January

I love this moment of
crackling spring,
when bare trees
begin to hum,
buds start to wake
and turn over just a bit
on their branches,
and daffodils,
looking for light,
unfurl yellow pennants
drooping with morning rain,
and on the roses,
pruned back to weathered wood,
buds swell crimson
at gnarled joints,
and fragrance fills the air,
not blossoming perfume
but scent of dampness from the earth,
down below the crust,
where beats the heart of things.
The birds know
and fill the air with song,
with flight of
springing wings.