Spring

i

Bleached, bone-dry,

wind-scalded wood;

 

my spindled torso

weathered clean,

 

my curlicued roots

 

clamped in the earth.

ii

 

But Spring’s moist eyes

 

defied my fingers,

 

imagining freedom,
 

conspired with soil;

 

I grew round, bright

and brazen.