Spring of Springs

Saturday, three hours
of sinking steps in soft, clod-strewn soil
behind green tiller, at times
imagining a sled
of Malamutes, I the lone musher. No drift
to fantasy allowed -- signs
augur in the loam, a piquant tang clamors
on the wind, verses write themselves
in the trees. I come to you
with what the earth intones.

Spring is imminent.

Whether, for you, it arrives in a month
or six, spring is
on the move, anticipate its arrival.
For we will say of this spring
in years to come: it was
the finest spring of our lives.

We will speak of it in the kitchens,
and in the pubs, whisper its memory
in kirkyards and on the greens,
we will bear witness to the spring of springs.

It is said, that when a people
have lost their vision, when a land
no longer has a future, when a nation
offers up their royals of peace to be hung
in the square, when the past
is all that remains, then
it is enough, and will suffice.

When children ask
remember to tell them the stories, tell them
what was lost, take them to a place
beyond the melted asphalt and steel
where they might listen
for any word from the earth.