The cool night air of spring
has forgotten what winter wrought
when its breath blew over the land.
Here, young leaves curl into the day
as each morning when light comes
from over the shoulder of the east
some warmth I do not feel is kindled.

The damp earth knows what I do not
within root tendril and mineral maze
where go all the wormy wanderers
coiled creatures, slow slithering
beings who, no less than I, live
within the shelter of our one home. 
This I vow not to forget, ever.

What is not holy on the land
in the dark caverns below
or flying in winds above?
Nothing at all can I imagine!
So let spring warm our northern lives
while leaves fall on southern climes.
Oh! The rapturous whirl of being!
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Portland, Oregon - March 30, 2022