Waters of March

it’s the sticks, it’s the stones,
it’s the stubbing of toes, it’s the breaking of bones,
it’s the stopping to sit at the edge of a stump,
it’s the feelings that creep when we think we’re along;
it’s a fox in the brush, it’s a breach in the branches:
it’s a lush beam of sun, it’s a box full of matches;
it’s the crack of a shell, it’s the stretch of a wing,
it’s the hatchling who fell,
it’s his siblings who sing;
it’s a spark, it’s the smoke,
it’s a flame, it’s the hearth,
it’s a warmth at the belly, it’s the hurt
at the heart; it’s an oak when it blooms,
it’s the knots on its bark, it’s a hope
for a home, it’s a ridge that’s been marked:
it’s a way to the water, it’s a river that bends;
it’s as soft as a grin when the breeze hits your back,
it’s a trust in those winds & the paths they may wend;
it’s heard first as a hush & when it shouts from thin air,
it’s when prudence just shrugs, & when faith nears the bend—

It’s life unabashed—
finding joy in amends.