From The Kenyon Review, New Series, Spring 1997, Vol. XIX, No. 2
Only the slightest thaw,
and something plops
in the water that clears.
It may be nothing that swims,
nothing that hops, or hopes.
Edge-ice falling in.
Something that happens
and simply stops.
Or it may be a thing
like this stick—
its red buds swelling out
in spite of what it
ought to know,
in spite of where it ought to be.
Some quickened water sprout,
separate
beyond naming
in its early spring.
