“I love the watching how the buds on the trees
are beginning to swell,” she said, taking me by surprise.
I hadn’t noticed. She’s farther south, I said to myself.
Surely I would have noticed, the softening of the tree line
being one of my favorite late-winter sights.
But the next morning, as I passed a favorite maple,
I saw that she spoke truly. It was indeed fuzzier
than it had been the week before. Say what you want,
Jack Frost. The ancient one in the pasture tells
the long-range tale: Spring is coming, regardless.