from the hilltop looking west~for spring and all things becoming more alive!
she was grateful of it being march,
as the rosy maple and the sturdy oak
were up to no good, leafless--
exposed to the northeasterlies
so she could make out in between the trees--
how the etched low tide inlet was moving slightly
in a grey ink from south to north, and would
become one with the long island sound
possibly by sunset--the way she was moving,
and the western shore seemed to be
drinking the diminishing light just
as simply as crocuses punch
their little oval faces
through the cold porous soil--
roots from years ago
like the scales from fish
smoothing its noted roughness
while dissolving, becoming one--
with the soft loamy earth
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