I’m not fresh
You could lay me flat like winter grass
Trampled underfoot in the field out back
Crisp, hard air
Catching in your throat and stinging your ears
Way up high, glittering speck of a bird in flight

All becomes a husk:
Coarse fiber pulled and tucked
Warms the burrowed nest
A rabbit folds herself for rest

We await the crocus and the smell of thawing soil
The secret stir of roots stretching slowly under cool, dark cover
“One cannot not become simple and true in one day.”
Gold in every season