swelling day, a collective fever
becomes visible
as the bashful sun
tickles baubles of frost
from the mud-mottled grass
and the geese overhead
blare back northward
in a huff.
With spring still little more
than an R.E.M. dream,
little sounds appealing
in the rawness
of wind and spent-
matchstick look of lawns—
but even though
that pulpit-crowed hope
of resurrection still feels risible,
we have to admit,
it's a joy
just to realize
even our muddy, most
juvenile feelings.
