Overwintered: A Poem

There will be another spring: The overwintered bulbs
Have begun to crack and send up early measures,
And the sleeves of forsythia that you soaked in your tub
Grew buttons of yellow that bloomed. It just took hoping for —
The painted birds, the worms after rain, the humanity of bees,
The sun on the bark of the birch that turns the color white
To amber. The balance tilts — fewer words than scenes — and green
Is antidotal, and old lovers linger longer over what was had
And what not taken. There’s more of morning,
More of the afternoon, and while snow is still a possibility,
So are tulips. I am working on becoming someone who is in need
Of less forgiveness, and I’ll want my hands for that, my eyes,
I’ll want more sleep, which I shall find, and if the hawk comes again
To my garden I will not interrupt him with my questions.
For we all worship weather in our own way, and stories, in the end,
Cannot be bargained for.
Nothing’s enough and everything must be.
It will be another year til winter.