Warmth tempts my berry tipped toes

to the opening of my den.

I crouch by new grass blades

sharp with the bitter scent of promise.

 

I am spring born.

 

What was my life before this long darkness?

Before this crescent edge of sun?

Do the trees stand exactly as they used to,

cutting out room for my shadow

in their own greater  shade?

Does the river carve out the spots where I used to stand

in hopes that my feet will

nestle in its water again?

 

I take one step forward

into the–

 

I am spring born.