Stubborn Spring

It's still cold for spring,

but the twisted branches

are trying hard to obey

the later lingering light,

are trying hard to burst

into leaf, but hover in bud.



It's still cold for spring,

but I keep poking sticks

into the lawn, the garden,

the compost, the mulch,

distressed that the sticks

stop short

where the soil lies

cold and hard.

"I am still dead," says the soil.

"Leave me be, leave me free

of seeds and digging wigglers.

It's still cold for spring,

and I feel no Easter warmth

rising through my bones."



No wonder the twisted branches

cannot obey the pastel pink sunset

setting later daily

with such

stubborn

cold

soil

blanketing their tree-toes.