Some springs take their time.
There is no race, no colours
out of place. My green will come,
and yours, though sooner,
cannot be superior.

Sienna burnt and raw
kept walls of the Etruscans
cool, and ocher of these
lands—Scots-Irish, Quaker,
Mohawk—holds sanctity
long past our layered
tribal renderings.

Beyond my view,
a day is forming when
I shall look back
with gratitude at this
cold year that stands
apart from merchants
with their white noise
climate maps
and fences.


© Elaine Stirling, 2014