When the light grew longer
and the snow began its ease to rain
the Narragansett would crouch
in silence in the marshlands
until an oak's leaf was the size
of a mouse's ear, into which
spring whispered that the shad
would soon be running –
that the ice would soon have thawed,
and, with it, heartbeats slowed in winter
would turn to drumbeats in the spring –
an honor song for all that lasted
to nourish and to warm.
If only we could learn the ready signs
that tell us when the sun has shifted –
then we, too, could wait
with knowing patience
on the brighter seasons – that if only
we could last until the thaw
a warmer wind would surely rise
and help us know our heartbeats better –
and you and I, paused together
to share a clean winter silence,
could be more than a pair of trembling pilgrims
crouching streamside, eyeing the bare branches
of oaks, fearfully unsure of our rhythms, of light,
and of seasons.
