Uprising

This morning, mist lifts
in ghosting sheets
from wood and grass
as frost becomes
something less solid.
Up from hay, garlic shoots.
And buds on the still naked
trees glow like a memory
of childhood. High
beyond reach, each one
pointing toward the sky
or tomorrow, rich with
color and scent yet
nascent. There’s fresh
snow in the northwest,
peaks beyond peaks
that beckon whitely
in the morning light.
All the greening comes
out of the freeze the way
what we let go rises,
stubborn and free.

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