The Birth of a Season
The Rest of My Life
March 12, 1996
Is Springtime
When I see the old woman kneeling
in hay, crooning to the lamb
sleek with afterbirth, I see,
for the first time, how my own
native gentleness inhabits
the midafternoon roadside dust
and dew spread over the morning
world. From now on
every reluctance is a lie.