Amaranth blush of silver maple,

grape hyacinth, flowering quince and crocus,

yellows, whites, purples, colors rising

from frosted dirt.

Poetry opens upon the skin of the earth.

How stirrings there

happen here,

within bone and blood.

Forgetting not to look, I see

with soft eyes closed,

unwinding spines of sprout, of vine,

twist toward sunlight.

Fully unbound by thought,

none needs instruction or understanding–

each knows its source and pattern,

with the only timing being right timing.