Cold Spring

Trees scrape the cliffs where I walk.
They push clouds around the
floor of the sky, old crones cleaning
windy corners and sending last year’s
leaves scattering before spring.

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I see the ragged spiral of the hunting hawk
the panicky bunch and flare of the flock
and the hole punched through it
where his clean brown form hurtled
by and left a dove mateless
his wings a silent scream.

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The fledgling year is waking, her
eyes still grey with fog. No one
knows what color they will be
but the renegade sun
has already twined flowers
through her long fingers and kissed
her cheeks with rain.
We hope for blue.